Chapter 4

At seven in the morning, Marta walked into the living room with a dust cloth.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The heavy glass door leading to the balcony was wide open. The freezing autumn wind was blowing the curtains wildly into the room.

Marta rushed toward the balcony.

She gasped, dropping the cloth.

Collette was curled into a tight, unnatural ball on the lounge chair. She was wearing nothing but a thin men's dress shirt.

"Miss!" Marta cried out.

She reached out and touched Collette's cheek. She yanked her hand back.

Collette's skin was burning like a furnace. Her lips were cracked and completely white.

"Oh, God," Marta panicked. She pulled her phone from her apron pocket and dialed 911 with shaking fingers.

Ten minutes later, the sirens wailed through the streets of Manhattan.

Inside the back of the ambulance, the paramedics ripped open ice packs and shoved them under Collette's arms and behind her neck.

Collette thrashed weakly on the stretcher.

She muttered something incoherent, her brow deeply furrowed in pain. A single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and rolled into her hairline.

The ambulance slammed to a halt at the emergency entrance of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital.

Dr. Marion Alcott took one look at her vitals and ordered her straight into a room.

"Acute pneumonia and a severe fever," the doctor announced.

Because there was no family member to sign the VIP forms, Marta had immediately contacted K. M. Sterling. The executive assistant used the Lara Empire's corporate channels to handle the exorbitant admission fees. However, since Hartwell was entirely unreachable and hadn't given explicit orders, Sterling could only secure a standard ward room for the time being.

Hours later, the harsh, white fluorescent lights pierced through Collette's eyelids.

She slowly opened her eyes. Her head felt like it was being split open with an axe. Her throat was so raw it felt like she was swallowing broken glass.

She stared at the IV tube taped to the back of her hand.

Marta sat in the plastic chair next to the bed, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

"I called Mr. Sterling," Marta sniffled. "He will tell Mr. Lara."

Hearing Hartwell's name made Collette's stomach physically twist.

She pushed her elbows into the mattress and forced herself to sit up.

A sudden, sharp pressure hit her bladder.

Without thinking, she grabbed the plastic tubing on her hand and ripped the IV needle straight out of her vein.

"Miss! No!" Marta jumped up.

Collette ignored her. Blood immediately beaded on her skin. She snatched a wad of sterile cotton from the bedside tray and pressed it hard against the puncture wound, hiding the bright red drops. She swung her legs over the bed and stood up. The room spun wildly, but she grabbed the wall to steady herself.

She walked out of the room. The harsh smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol assaulted her nose.

Keeping her bleeding hand firmly clenched and hidden against her side, she walked slowly toward the public restroom down the hall.

As she passed the nurses' station, two nurses were leaning over a clipboard.

"Did you see the girl in the top-floor VIP suite?" one whispered. "Miss Isabell. She's so delicate. The guy with her is gorgeous."

Collette's feet stopped moving.

The name "Isabell" hit her chest like a sledgehammer. Her lungs forgot how to work.

She didn't go to the restroom.

Her legs moved on their own. She dragged her burning body toward the elevators and pressed the button for the VIP floor.

The doors opened to thick, plush carpeting. There was no smell of bleach here. It was completely silent.

Collette hid behind the corner of the wall, her eyes locked on the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. It was cracked open.

She crept closer.

Through the narrow gap, she saw Isabell sitting up in a hospital bed. She wore a silk hospital gown. Her face was pale, but her hair was perfectly brushed.

Sitting in the chair next to the bed was Hartwell.

His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair.

He was holding a small paring knife. His head was bowed, his eyes focused entirely on peeling an apple for Isabell. His movements were slow and incredibly patient.

"The bed is too hard, Hartwell," Isabell whined softly.

"I'll have them change the mattress tomorrow," Hartwell replied.

His voice was low. It was the exact same gentle tone he used on the phone last night.

"Did you leave work just to sit with me?" Isabell asked, reaching out to tug on his shirt sleeve.

Hartwell didn't pull away. He just kept peeling the apple.

Collette stood in the hallway. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

Her body shook violently from the fever. She bit down on her bottom lip so hard that the skin broke. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.

She didn't make a sound.

"Miss? Are you lost?" a passing nurse asked, looking at Collette's bare feet and standard hospital gown.

Collette flinched like she had been burned.

She covered her mouth with her bleeding hand, spun around, and ran toward the elevator, fleeing the floor like a pathetic, wounded animal.