Chapter 3

As Mark and Jessica turned away, reveling in their cruel display, a man I recognized as David, an old college friend of Mark's and a business associate, approached me. He'd always been part of Mark's entourage, but tonight, his face was pale, his eyes filled with a horror that mirrored my own.

He quickly, discreetly, slipped off his own jacket and pressed it into my hands. "Take this, Sarah. I'm so sorry." He whispered, then melted back into the crowd before Mark could notice.

Clutching David's jacket, weak, bleeding from the cut on my neck, and shivering from the cold champagne, I stumbled out of the hotel and into the biting New York night. The city lights blurred through my tears. I didn't know where to go, what to do. The ultimatum-midnight-loomed.

I wandered aimlessly, the earlier pain from the procedure now a searing fire. Each step was an agony. Eventually, my legs gave out. I collapsed in a dark, cold alleyway, the city's indifference a crushing weight.

Just as consciousness began to fade, I heard a familiar voice call my name, laced with panic.

"Sarah? Sarah, is that you?"

Through the haze, I saw a figure kneeling beside me. Alex. My childhood best friend from Ohio, the boy who had always looked out for me, now a successful tech CEO. What was he doing in New York?

"Alex?" I managed, my voice a croak.

He didn't ask questions. He just gently lifted me, his expression a mixture of shock and fury. "Hold on, Sarah. I've got you."

He rushed me to a private hospital, his presence a sudden, unexpected anchor in the storm of my despair.

Later, in a quiet hospital room, a doctor delivered grim news. Years of trauma, culminating in the recent coerced abortion, had caused severe internal injuries. My future fertility was now in serious jeopardy. The words hit me hard, another layer of loss piled onto an already unbearable mountain.

Alex sat by my bedside, his hand gently covering mine. "Sarah," he said, his voice soft but firm. "I've always cared about you. More than you know."

He didn't pry into the details of what happened, he just saw my pain. "I want to help. No strings attached."

He pulled out a burner phone, an untraceable debit card with a substantial amount of money on it, and a set of keys. "This is for a guesthouse I own in Napa Valley. It's secluded, safe. You can go there, heal. Stay as long as you need. This offer, it's permanent."

Tears streamed down my face, not of despair this time, but of a fragile, burgeoning hope. Someone cared. Someone was offering a way out.