Chapter 7 No.7

"Dr. Hensley, a pleasure to see you again," Ms. Sterling, the editor-in-chief of a major fashion magazine, said from her bed in the VIP suite of St. Jude's Hospital. Helena was here on business, a private consultation to appraise the jewelry Sterling was considering for a charity auction. The hospital had provided her with a visitor's badge and a white lab coat-standard protocol for outside consultants working with VIP patients, though Helena always found it mildly misleading.

She was examining a Cartier necklace when she noticed Sterling was pale, her hand pressed against her chest in a way that suggested more than indigestion.

"They said it's anxiety," Sterling gasped. "They gave me something to calm me down."

Helena put the jeweler's loupe down. She wasn't a medical doctor. But she had spent years looking for things that didn't add up-discrepancies in ledgers, anomalies in financial statements. Sterling's pallor, the shallow breathing, the way she kept rubbing her left arm-it didn't fit the picture of simple anxiety.

"Have they done an EKG?" Helena asked.

Sterling shook her head. "They said my vitals were fine."

Helena hesitated. She wasn't qualified to diagnose. But she was qualified to ask questions. She pulled out her phone. "I know someone. Give me a moment."

She scrolled through her contacts and found a name: Dr. Zoe Miller. They had met years ago at a Columbia alumni event-Zoe was a cardiology fellow, sharp and no-nonsense. Helena had helped her with some financial paperwork once. She owed her a favor.

Helena stepped into the hallway and dialed.

"Zoe, it's Helena Hensley. I'm at St. Jude's with a client. Something feels off-chest pressure, pallor, left arm discomfort. The doctors here are saying anxiety."

Zoe listened, then asked a few quick questions. "Push for a cardiac workup. Now. If they push back, tell them to call me. I'll make sure they take it seriously."

Helena hung up and walked back to the nurses' station. She kept her voice low but firm.

"I'd like a second opinion on Ms. Sterling's cardiac status. I have a colleague-Dr. Miller, on staff at Presbyterian-who's willing to consult."

The nurse hesitated, glancing at the attending physician passing by. Helena added, "Ms. Sterling is a major donor to this hospital's new wing. It would be a shame if a preventable complication made the evening news."

That got their attention.

Two hours later, after a flurry of activity from panicked administrators, the results of a rush cardiac workup came back. The diagnosis was viral myocarditis-inflammation of the heart muscle, potentially life-threatening. The attending physician admitted that the early symptoms had been atypical. If they had sent her home, she would have gone into cardiac arrest by dinner.

By evening, Sterling was stable. She grabbed Helena's hand as she prepared to leave.

"You saved my life," the woman whispered. "You're wasted on that boy, Harrison."

She pressed a heavy cream envelope into Helena's hand. "My private gala next week. You need your own network, darling. Don't be an accessory."

Helena looked at the invitation. Don't be an accessory.

Her phone rang. It was Evelyn.

Helena answered, putting it on speaker as she packed her appraisal kit. "Hello, Evelyn."

"Helena," Evelyn's voice was ice. "Harrison tells me you're having a tantrum. Saturday is the family dinner at the estate. I expect you there. Don't embarrass us."

Helena stopped packing. She took a sip of her cold coffee.

"I'm afraid I can't make it, Evelyn. Harrison and I are no longer together."

There was a stunned silence on the other end.

"Excuse me? Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?"

"Let them have it," Helena said. "I quit."

She hung up.

A rush of adrenaline surged through her. She felt lighter than air.

She left the hospital at 8 PM. Harrison's Porsche was parked at the main entrance. He was standing there with a bouquet of red roses the size of a small bush.

He looked pathetic.

Helena turned around and exited through the ambulance bay. She hopped into a taxi.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

*The Pierre Hotel. 9 PM. - C.*

Helena stared at the screen. C. Collis? The man from the car?

How did he get her number?

She read the message, her expression unreadable. Then she turned the phone over, placing it screen-down on her lap. The lack of a reply was its own form of power. She would not be summoned.

The taxi dropped her at Whitney's apartment in Brooklyn. She slept fitfully, dreaming of grey eyes and blood-soaked shirts.

The next morning, she deleted the text without responding. She had no intention of walking into whatever trap C. had set.