Chapter 8 No.8

The car came to a halt on the dark shoulder of the highway. Rain had started to fall, drumming against the roof.

Ethan opened the door on Amira's side. The noise of passing trucks was deafening.

"Get out," he said.

Amira looked at the speeding cars. "Here? It's dangerous."

"Delisa needs me. She's upset about the paparazzi. You're just dead weight. Get out!"

He placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed. Amira stumbled out, her heels sinking into the wet gravel.

He grabbed her purse from the seat and threw it out after her. It landed in a puddle.

"Walk home. Maybe it'll teach you some gratitude."

He slammed the door.

The SUV peeled away, tires spinning, spraying her with mud and exhaust. Amira watched the taillights disappear into the rain.

She stood alone in the dark. The rain soaked her clothes instantly, chilling her to the bone. She picked up her purse. Her phone battery was at 15%. No signal.

She started walking.

Her only goal was the faint glow of an exit sign in the distance. Every step was a battle. Her feet, already sore, began to blister in her thin shoes. Trucks roared past, shaking the ground, splashing dirty, freezing water onto her legs. It felt like an eternity, but after nearly an hour of shivering and stumbling, she reached the off-ramp. A brightly lit 24-hour gas station stood like a beacon. She ducked inside, dripping water all over the linoleum, ignoring the cashier's stare. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone steady, but she saw it: one bar of service. It was enough. She called the first car service she could find, the dispatcher quoting a price that made her stomach clench, but she agreed without hesitation.

The long, silent ride back to the city gave her too much time to think. By the time she arrived at the Penthouse building, she was shivering uncontrollably. The doorman, George, who usually smiled at her, looked at her awkwardly. He didn't open the door. He just watched her struggle with the heavy glass.

"Rough night, Dr. Cortez?" he asked, avoiding eye contact.

Amira just nodded, too tired to speak. She took the elevator up. The numbers ticked by slowly. 10... 20... Penthouse.

She unlocked the door.

The hallway was filled with luggage. Louis Vuitton. Stacks of it.

Amira froze. It wasn't hers.

She walked closer. The monogram on the side of the largest trunk read: D.C.

Delisa Conrad.

Amira realized then that she hadn't just been abandoned on the highway. She had been replaced.