Chapter 3 3

The VIP wing of St. Luke's Hospital didn't smell like a hospital. It smelled like fresh lilies and expensive floor polish. The silence here was purchased at ten thousand dollars a night.

Aleigha stepped off the elevator. Her heels made no sound on the plush carpet.

Two bodyguards stood outside Room 808. They saw her and stepped aside, nodding. To them, she was still Mrs. Brown, the obedient blood bag.

She didn't correct them.

She pushed the door open.

Crysta Farmer was sitting up in bed. She was holding a spoon, delicately eating from a porcelain bowl. Bird's nest soup. Her cheeks were flushed with health, her eyes bright as she scrolled through her phone with her free hand.

The moment the door opened, Crysta froze.

In less than a second, the transformation happened. The spoon clattered into the bowl. Crysta slumped back against the pillows. Her eyes drooped, her breathing becoming shallow and labored.

"Aleigha..." Crysta whispered, her voice trembling. "You finally came. Bart said you would save me..."

Aleigha walked into the room. She didn't stop at the foot of the bed. She walked to the side, towering over the lying woman.

She reached behind her without looking and turned the lock on the door.

Click.

The sound was small, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a gunshot.

Crysta's eyes flickered. The act wavered for a millisecond. "Why... why did you lock the door?"

Aleigha picked up the medical chart hanging at the foot of the bed. She flipped it open.

"Hemoglobin, 12.5," Aleigha read aloud. "Blood pressure, 120 over 80. Heart rate, steady."

She snapped the chart shut and dropped it on the bed. It landed on Crysta's legs.

"You're healthier than I am, Crysta. Does acting exhaust you, or does the adrenaline of being a sociopath keep you going?"

Crysta's face changed. The weak, dying flower vanished. Her lips curled into a sneer.

"So what?" Crysta laughed. It was an ugly sound. "It doesn't matter what the chart says. If I say I'm dizzy, Bart panics. If I say I need blood, he bleeds you. That's how it works."

Crysta leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He was here last night, you know. Right in this bed. He told me you're like a piece of wood. Boring. Cold."

Aleigha felt a calmness settle over her. It was the eye of the storm.

"Is that so?" Aleigha asked.

Crysta, misinterpreting the silence for defeat, reached out. She grabbed Aleigha's sleeve with surprising strength.

"Go call the nurse," Crysta commanded. "I want my transfusion. And get me a hot chocolate while you're at it."

Aleigha looked at the hand on her sleeve.

She moved.

She ripped her arm away. Crysta gasped, throwing herself backward against the headboard, opening her mouth to scream.

Before the sound could leave her throat, Aleigha's hand moved through the air.

SMACK.

The sound was wet and sharp.

Aleigha's palm connected with Crysta's cheek with every ounce of frustration, betrayal, and rage she had suppressed for three years.

Crysta's head snapped to the side. The silence that followed was absolute.

Aleigha flexed her hand. Her palm stung. It felt amazing.

"That," Aleigha said, her voice steady, "was for the girl who spent three years draining her veins for a liar."

Crysta touched her cheek. A red handprint was blossoming there, vivid against her pale skin.

"You hit me!" Crysta screeched. "You actually hit me! Bart will kill you!"

Aleigha leaned down. She grabbed Crysta's chin, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, forcing the other woman to look her in the eye.

"Scream louder," Aleigha whispered. "Let's see if he can un-slap your face."

Crysta struggled, her eyes wide with genuine fear now. This wasn't the Aleigha she knew. This was something dangerous.

"I have the digital logs," Aleigha lied smoothly, though she knew her contact had already secured the real files from the hospital server. "The ones you thought you deleted. If you ever come near me again, every news outlet in New York will run the story of the Fake Heiress."

The doorknob rattled violently.

"Crysta? Aleigha?" Bart's voice came from the hallway, muffled but angry.

Crysta's eyes lit up. She immediately messed up her hair and let out a wail of despair.

BAM.

A heavy boot kicked the door near the lock. The wood splintered.

The door flew open, banging against the wall.

Bart rushed in, chest heaving. He took in the scene: Crysta sobbing into her hands, her cheek bright red, and Aleigha standing by the bed, looking like an executioner who had just dropped the axe.

"Bart!" Crysta cried, pointing a trembling finger. "She tried to kill me! She's crazy!"

Bart saw the red mark. A vein popped in his forehead.

He charged at Aleigha, his hand raised as if to shove her.

Aleigha didn't flinch. She didn't step back. She locked eyes with him, channeling the icy authority of her father, Arman Kemp.

"Touch me," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "and you lose the hand."

Bart froze. His hand hovered inches from her shoulder. The sheer, radiating menace coming from her stopped him cold. It was like looking into the eyes of a predator, not prey.

The air in the room grew thick, suffocating.