Chapter 4 4

The St. Jude's Private Recovery Center looked more like a Five-Star hotel than a medical facility. The lobby had a waterfall. The nurses wore uniforms that looked like flight attendant attire.

Emelie marched past the concierge, ignoring his request for ID. She knew which room Lily was in-Room 402, the VIP suite.

She pushed the door open.

The room was bathed in soft morning light. Lily was sitting up in bed, surrounded by pillows.

Clifton was sitting in a leather armchair reading the Wall Street Journal.

And Eleanora was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a spoon.

"Open wide for Auntie El," Eleanora cooed, offering Lily a spoonful of oatmeal.

Lily giggled and ate it.

The domestic perfection of the scene-the father, the 'mother,' the child-hit Emelie like a physical slap. It was a tableau of a life that had erased her completely.

"Lily," Emelie choked out.

Lily turned. Her smile vanished instantly. Her eyes went wide with fear. She shrank back against the pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin.

"No..." Lily whimpered. "No Mama."

Emelie froze in the doorway. "Baby, it's me. Mommy's here."

She took a step forward.

"NO!" Lily screamed, kicking her legs. "Go away! Bad Mama!"

Clifton dropped his paper. Eleanora set the bowl down with a dramatic sigh.

"Lily, what are you saying?" Emelie asked, tears springing to her eyes. She reached out a hand.

"Auntie El said you hurt me!" Lily sobbed, pointing a small finger at Emelie. "She said you made the doctors stick needles in me! She said you made it hurt!"

Emelie's gaze snapped to Eleanora.

Eleanora pressed a hand to her chest, her face a mask of shock. "Oh my goodness. Children have such vivid imaginations."

"You did this," Emelie hissed. "I saved her life! That needle saved her life!"

"It hurt!" Lily cried. "Daddy, make her go away!"

Clifton stood up and walked over to the bed. He scooped Lily into his arms. "Shh, shh, Daddy's here. Nobody is going to hurt you."

Lily buried her face in Clifton's neck, turning her back on Emelie completely.

"Emelie," Clifton said over Lily's head, his voice stern. "You're upsetting her. Maybe you should leave."

"She's my daughter, Clifton! She's being manipulated!"

"She's traumatized!" Clifton shot back. "And seeing you is triggering it. You were very... aggressive at the hospital. She remembers the fear."

"I was aggressive because she was dying!" Emelie screamed.

"Emelie, please," Eleanora stood up, walking toward her with a pitying look. She reached out to touch Emelie's arm. "You're making a scene. Just go home and rest. We'll take care of her."

We.

Emelie looked at Eleanora's hand. She slapped it away violently.

"Don't touch me."

"Emelie!" Clifton barked. "Apologize to her!"

Emelie looked at her husband. He was holding their child, protecting her from her mother, while defending his mistress.

"No," Emelie said.

She looked at Lily's trembling back. "I love you, Lily. I love you so much."

Lily didn't turn around.

Emelie backed out of the room. Her heart felt like it had been ripped out of her chest and stomped on.

She walked down the pristine, silent hallway. She didn't take the elevator. She took the stairs, stumbling down four flights, her vision blurred by tears.

She burst out of the emergency exit into the alleyway behind the clinic.

She leaned against the brick wall and slid down, sobbing into her hands. The sound was raw, ugly.

After five minutes, the tears stopped.

Emelie wiped her face with her sleeve. She stood up.

The sorrow was evaporating, replaced by a cold, calculating anger.

Eleanora had used the pain of a medical procedure to weaponize a child against her mother. That wasn't just cruel; it was pathological.

Emelie remembered something.

When Eleanora had reached out to touch her arm, her sleeve had ridden up slightly.

On the inside of Eleanora's elbow, there was a bruise. A small, dark purple hematoma with a puncture mark in the center.

And another one, older, fading yellow, just an inch away.

Healthy socialites didn't have track marks on their antecubital fossa.

Those were IV marks. Or blood draw marks. Frequent ones.

Emelie pulled out her phone. She dialed Harper.

"I need you to do something illegal," Emelie said.

"I'm listening," Harper replied instantly.

"Find out where Eleanora Hardy gets her medical care. Not her botox doctor. Her real doctor. She has needle tracks on her arm. She's sick, Harper. Or she's taking something."

"I'll put a PI on it," Harper said. "But Emelie... be careful. If you dig up dirt on Clifton's golden girl, he will come for you."

"Let him come," Emelie said, staring up at the window of Room 402. "I'm done hiding."