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 white lab coat she wore over her suit was a courtesy provided by the hospital's PR department, a way to make high-value clients feel they were dealing with an official appraiser.

She was examining a Cartier necklace when she noticed Sterling was pale, clutching her chest.

"They said it's anxiety," Sterling gasped. "They gave me Valium."

Helena put the jeweler's loupe down. She wasn't a medical doctor, but her mind, trained to see patterns and anomalies in financial records, saw one here. The slight tremor in Sterling's hand, the faint blue tinge to her lips-it didn't add up to anxiety. It was a data set pointing to a critical error.

"The care here is usually impeccable," Helena said smoothly, pulling out her phone. "Let me just make a call to ensure you're getting the top-tier attention you deserve."

She dialed a number from memory. "Mr. Albright, Helena Hensley. I'm here at St. Jude's with our mutual client, Ms. Sterling. I'm a bit concerned about her care. You're the chairman of the hospital's board, aren't you? I'd hate for a story to get out that one of Sotheby's premier clients was neglected at an institution you've so generously funded."

Two hours later, after a flurry of activity from panicked administrators, the results of a rush cardiac MRI came back. It was viral myocarditis, severe and life-threatening. 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.