Chapter 3

Eleanor snatched the thick stack of papers from Sharon's hands.

She didn't read a single line of the medical jargon. She flipped straight to the back pages and aggressively scribbled her signature on every single proxy line.

She slammed the clipboard down on the reception desk.

"Listen to me," Eleanor pointed a shaking finger at the hospital administrator standing behind the counter. "If Corrine Ratcliff dies in that room, the Fletcher family lawyers will bankrupt this hospital by morning. Do your jobs."

Two agonizing hours passed.

Eleanor paced the hallway. Finally, the red light above the operating room doors clicked off.

The automatic doors slid open. Dr. Finch walked out. His blue scrubs were covered in massive, dark red bloodstains. He pulled his surgical cap off, looking exhausted.

Eleanor sprang from the plastic waiting chair. She ran over and grabbed his forearm.

"Is she alive?" Eleanor demanded.

Dr. Finch let out a heavy breath. "She delivered twins. A boy and a girl. The boy's weight is barely acceptable, but he's stable."

Eleanor's shoulders dropped. A small, relieved smile touched her lips.

But Dr. Finch's expression didn't change. His jaw tightened.

"The girl suffered severe hypoxia in the womb," he said, his voice grim. "Her lungs are severely underdeveloped. She's in critical condition. We are moving her to the NICU immediately."

Before Eleanor could process the words, the OR doors opened again. Two nurses ran out, pushing a clear plastic incubator.

Eleanor rushed to the glass. Inside the box lay a baby girl. She was the size of Eleanor's hand. Her skin was a terrifying shade of purple. A thick tube was shoved down her tiny throat. Her chest barely moved.

Eleanor's chest seized. It felt like a giant hand was crushing her heart.

She watched through blurred, tear-filled eyes as the nurses pushed the incubator down the hall, rushing toward the intensive care wing.

Eleanor wiped her face and turned back to Dr. Finch. "And Corrine? Can I see her?"

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly. "Corrine suffered uterine atony after the delivery. She lost a catastrophic amount of blood."

Eleanor stopped breathing.

"We managed to save her uterus," Dr. Finch continued. "But the blood loss sent her into deep hemorrhagic shock. She is in the ICU. We are monitoring her for multiple organ failure. It's hour by hour right now."

Eleanor's legs gave out. She slid down the cold, tiled wall until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her hands. A violent sob tore through her chest.

Ding.

A sharp notification sound came from her pocket.

Eleanor pulled out her phone with trembling hands. It was an alert from her special Twitter follows. Cristofer's official PR team had just released a joint statement.

Eleanor stared at the screen. The text was perfectly polished.

Mr. Cristofer Clarke and Ms. Arielle Orozco are longtime friends. They were simply enjoying a beautiful weekend together at a private gathering. We ask the media to stop over-analyzing the situation.

Below the text was a high-quality photo of Cristofer and Arielle clinking champagne glasses in the sun. They were smiling.

Eleanor looked at the words enjoying a beautiful weekend. Then she looked down the hall at the flashing red lights of the ICU, where Corrine was bleeding to death.

A wave of pure, blinding rage shot straight to her brain.

Eleanor stood up. She gripped her phone tightly. She turned and hurled it as hard as she could at a massive, antique porcelain vase sitting in the corner of the lobby.

CRASH!

The vase exploded. Thousands of sharp ceramic shards flew across the floor.

The nurses jumped. The security guards reached for their radios.

Eleanor didn't care. She pointed at the broken pieces on the floor.

"Cristofer Clarke," she whispered to the empty air, her teeth grinding together. "I am going to make you pay for this."

She marched over to the nurses' station. She pulled a solid metal American Express Black Card from her wallet and slapped it on the counter.

"Move Corrine to the highest security VIP penthouse suite on the top floor. Now," Eleanor ordered.

The nurse blinked, intimidated. "Yes, ma'am."

"And tell your security chief," Eleanor leaned over the counter, her eyes completely dead, "if anyone with the last name Clarke steps foot on that floor, I will have them arrested for trespassing."

Once the transfer was initiated, Eleanor walked down to the NICU. She stood outside the large glass window, staring at the tiny, purple baby fighting for every breath.

She pulled a burner phone from her bag. She dialed the encrypted number of her family's private investigator.

He answered immediately.

"I need you to dig into that Hamptons villa," Eleanor said, her voice as sharp as a razor. "Find out exactly what happened last night. I want every piece of dirt you can find on Arielle Orozco."

She hung up the phone. The rain outside the hospital window began to slow, but Eleanor knew the real storm was just beginning.