Chapter 6 6

Kristopher's eyes darkened with a rage so pure it was terrifying. He didn't throw a punch. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

"Call an emergency meeting with our partners at the investment bank," Kristopher ordered into the phone, his voice echoing in the dead-silent gallery. "I want to review our entire credit exposure to the Chelsea Art Gallery's parent company. Find a breach, any breach. I want them cut off by morning."

The gallery manager let out a strangled cry. He rushed forward and literally dropped to his knees on the polished hardwood floor, begging.

"Mr. Glenn! Please! You'll bankrupt us! Please, I beg you!"

Kristopher didn't even look down. He simply jerked his chin toward the glass display case holding the Black Swan gown.

The manager scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking violently as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the glass case, carefully lifted the black dress, and held it out with both hands like an offering.

Dinah smiled. The tears vanished instantly, replaced by the smug, victorious glow of a conqueror. She waved her hand, and her assistant rushed forward to take the dress.

Aletha stood frozen. She watched three months of her own blood, sweat, and sleepless nights being handed over to a thief. She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood.

Julian pulled out his phone, ready to call his own financial backers to counter the move.

Aletha reached out and wrapped her fingers tightly around his wrist. She shook her head slowly.

She refused to let Julian drag his company into the crossfire for her. She let go of his arm, straightened her spine against the mocking stares of the crowd, and walked out of the gallery.

The cold street wind hit her face. She took a deep breath, locking the burning hatred deep inside her ribcage.

Her phone rang. It was Genevieve, her adoptive mother.

"Get your useless self back to the Long Island estate right now!" Genevieve shrieked through the speaker.

Aletha hailed a cab. She sat in silence as the car crossed the bridge, taking her back to the massive, freezing mansion she used to call home.

The moment she stepped through the grand oak doors into the foyer, a heavy crystal ashtray flew through the air.

It missed her forehead by an inch and shattered violently against the doorframe behind her. Shards of glass rained down on her shoulders.

Her adoptive father, Garrison, stood in the center of the living room, his face purple with rage.

"You worthless waste of space!" Garrison roared. "You can't even keep your husband's attention! Glenn Industries just paused our venture capital funding!"

Genevieve sat on the sofa, dabbing her dry eyes with a tissue. "The family trust is bleeding dry, Aletha. We are going to lose everything."

Haylie, Aletha's adoptive sister, lounged in a velvet chair wearing a silk robe, swirling a glass of red wine.

"You're the legal wife, yet you let a crybaby ex-girlfriend walk all over you," Haylie sneered, taking a sip of wine. "Pathetic."

Aletha stared at the people who had drained her dry. "I have sold my life and my freedom to this family for three years. Is it never enough?"

Garrison slammed his fist down on the coffee table. "As long as your last name is Ward, you will bleed for this family until you die!"

He picked up a thick legal folder containing the medical tech venture capital contract and threw it hard at Aletha's feet.

"You will go to Kristopher tonight. You will get on your knees if you have to, but you will not leave until he signs that contract!" Garrison ordered.

Aletha looked down at the folder. She slowly bent down and picked it up. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the paper. She let out a dry, hollow laugh, turned around, and walked back toward the door.

"If you don't get that money, I'll go to your hospital tomorrow and scream until you lose your job!" Haylie yelled at her back.

Aletha slammed the heavy oak doors shut, cutting off the toxic poison of her family.

She walked down the empty, winding road of the Long Island estate. The night wind cut through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. She had nowhere to go. No one in the world to protect her.

Suddenly, her phone screen lit up with a flashing red light. A loud, piercing alarm sounded.

It was the mandatory emergency response app for Fairview Medical Center. A mass casualty event.

The doctor inside her immediately overrode the broken woman. Aletha sprinted to the main road, flagged down a passing taxi, and jumped in.

"Fairview Medical Center, Manhattan. Fast," she told the driver.

She opened the app to read the accident brief. Her heart stopped. Sitting right at the top of the incoming trauma list was a name she knew too well.