Chapter 5

Aliana POV

The hospital morgue smelled of bleach and finality.

I signed the papers.

*Cause of death: Cardiac Arrest.*

I knew the real cause.

*Cause of death: Crawford Arrogance.*

My phone buzzed against my hip. It was a text from the transplant coordinator.

*Ms. Rodriguez, a donor heart became available for your father twenty minutes ago. We attempted to contact you multiple times. Since the patient has expired, the organ has been reallocated.*

Twenty minutes ago.

If I hadn't been delayed by that stunt in the fountain. If the tires hadn't been slashed.

He would be alive.

I put the phone in my pocket. My hands were steady. Unnaturally steady.

I walked up to the VIP waiting room on the fourth floor. I knew they were there. Hadley's "panic attack" required the best doctors money could buy, while my father had died in the cold downstairs.

I pushed the double doors open.

Damien was sitting on a plush sofa, scrolling on his phone. Hadley was lying on a chaise lounge, idly plucking grapes from a stem.

"This stress is bad for my complexion," Hadley whined, her voice grating against the silence. "Damien, rub my feet."

Damien sighed, sliding his phone into his pocket. He reached for her foot.

I walked up to him.

He looked up, his expression bored. "Ali? Is the old man-"

I slapped him.

It wasn't just a slap. It was a collision of bone and pure, distilled rage. My palm connected with his cheek with a sound like a gunshot.

Damien's head snapped to the side. The room went dead silent.

He slowly turned back to look at me. His cheek was already blooming a vibrant red. His eyes were wide with shock that quickly morphed into a dark, dangerous fury.

"You killed him," I said. My voice was a whisper, but it sliced across the room.

Damien stood up. He towered over me. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my pulse hard enough to bruise.

"He was a servant," Damien spat. "People die. Get over it."

"You slashed the tires."

"My mother slashed the tires," he corrected, without an ounce of remorse. "And she did it to keep you here. Because you belong to us."

He dragged me toward an empty exam room adjacent to the waiting area. He kicked the door shut and pinned me against the metal counter.

"You need to learn respect, Aliana," he growled.

He reached onto a stainless steel tray of medical supplies. He picked up a needle. It was a large gauge, the kind used for drawing thick blood.

"Give me your hand."

"No."

He grabbed my left hand and slammed it onto the cold counter. He held it down with the weight of his forearm.

"You slapped me with this hand," he said, his eyes glinting with a terrifying madness. "You touched me without permission."

He raised the needle.

"Damien, don't," I said. Not begging. Warning.

He drove the needle into the back of my hand.

Pain exploded. Bright, white-hot, and sharp.

He pushed it deep, twisting it.

I didn't scream. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction. I stared right at him.

He looked down at my hand. He saw the needle sticking out of my skin.

But then, he stopped.

He was looking at the old scars on the back of my hand. The faint, white dots from the hundreds of IVs I had endured five years ago when they drained me to save him.

He frowned. He tilted his head like a confused dog.

"Why do you have track marks?" he muttered. "Are you a junkie, Ali?"

He pulled the needle out. Blood welled up, dark and thick.

"Marry me," he said, wiping the bloody needle on his expensive pants. "Marry me next week. I'll pay for a nice funeral for your dad. Mahogany casket. The works. But you serve Hadley. You apologize to her."

I looked at the blood dripping onto the floor.

*Drip. Drip. Drip.*

"Get out," I whispered.

"What?"

"Get out of my face before I rip your throat out with my teeth."

He laughed. He actually laughed. "You're cute when you're feisty. Think about it. You have nowhere else to go."

He opened the door and stormed out.

I stood there, clutching my bleeding hand.

I reached into my pocket with my good hand. I pulled out my phone.

I didn't dial 911. The police were on the Crawford payroll.

I dialed the number that had been saved as a single period in my contacts.

"He's dead," I said into the phone. "They killed him."

Anderson's voice came through the line instantly. "Where are you?"

"St. Jude's Hospital. VIP wing."

"I'm already in the lobby."

"Come get me, Anderson," I said, watching my blood pool on the tile. "And bring your gun."