Chapter 4

The phone vibrated in the pocket of his discarded trousers. It was a relentless, urgent buzz that cut through the haze of humiliation.

Liam stood by the couch, a bottle of champagne in his hand, his eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. He was reciting Scarlett' s preferences in a flat monotone, his voice devoid of all emotion. Chad and Brad were on the couch, looking increasingly uncomfortable, glancing from Scarlett' s crazed, eager face to Liam' s empty one.

"He likes it when you..." Scarlett urged, her voice impatient.

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. It was a cheap, old burner phone he kept for emergencies, a secret from Scarlett. Only one person had the number: the head nurse at the facility where his father lived.

"Get your phone," Scarlett snapped, annoyed by the interruption. "Turn it off."

Liam walked over to the chair where his clothes lay. He pulled the phone from his pocket. The screen read 'Glenwood Nursing - URGENT' .

His blood ran cold.

He answered the call. "Hello?"

A frantic voice came through the speaker. "Mr. Miller? It' s Nurse Evans. You need to come now. It' s your father. He' s had a massive stroke. The doctors... they don' t think he' s going to make it through the night."

The world tilted on its axis. "I' m on my way."

He hung up and started pulling on his pants, his hands shaking.

"Where do you think you' re going?" Scarlett demanded, rising from her chair.

"My father," Liam said, his voice cracking for the first time. "He' s dying. I have to go."

"No," Scarlett said, her voice dangerously calm. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the door. "You' re not going anywhere. Our evening isn' t over. Your father can wait."

"Scarlett, you don' t understand. He doesn' t have time. Let me go."

"I said no!" she screamed, her face contorting. "You will not ruin this for me! You will not leave this room until I say you can leave!"

She grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin. Chad and Brad, seeing their chance to get back in her good graces, moved to flank her. They grabbed his other arm.

"Don' t let him leave," Scarlett ordered them.

Desperation clawed at Liam' s throat. He saw his father' s face in his mind, frail and fading. He couldn't let him die alone. He struggled against their grip, but two against one, they were stronger. They dragged him away from the door and shoved him into a hard-backed dining chair.

"Get the ropes from the utility closet," Scarlett told Brad. "The ones for the luggage."

Brad returned with a nylon rope. They tied Liam' s hands tightly behind the chair. They bound his ankles to the chair legs. He was trapped.

"Now," Scarlett said, circling him like a predator. "You' ll sit here and be quiet until I' m finished with you."

She turned her back on him and led Chad and Brad back to the living room. Liam pulled at the ropes, the nylon cutting into his wrists, but it was no use. Panic set in, a wild, frantic terror. He could hear the sound of the storm raging outside, a physical manifestation of the tempest in his soul.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything. He saw the champagne bottle on the floor where he' d dropped it. It had rolled near the leg of the chair. An idea, insane and brutal, formed in his mind.

He kicked out, his bare foot connecting with the bottle. It didn't break. He kicked again, harder. The bottle rolled. He maneuvered his chair, scraping it across the floor, until the bottle was wedged against the wall. With a final, desperate kick, he smashed it.

Glass shattered across the hardwood floor.

Without a second' s thought, he shuffled the chair back, dragging his bound hands down toward the floor. He felt for a large shard, his fingers brushing against the jagged edges. He found one. He gripped it, the sharp glass slicing into his palm. He ignored the pain.

He began to saw at the rope around his wrists, the glass cutting into his flesh as much as the nylon. Blood dripped onto the floor, mixing with the spilled champagne. He worked frantically, sawing back and forth, the image of his father' s face driving him on.

The first rope snapped. Then the second. His hands were free. He quickly untied his ankles, his bloody hands fumbling with the knots.

He stood up, swaying slightly. Scarlett and the others hadn't noticed. They were absorbed in their own world.

He didn't grab his shirt or jacket. Bare-chested, bleeding, he ran for the door. He wrenched it open and sprinted into the hallway, not looking back. He jabbed the button for the elevator, his bloody fingerprint smearing on the cool metal.

The storm was a full-blown gale when he burst out of the building' s main entrance. Rain lashed down, driven by a howling wind. He had no wallet, no keys, no phone. He just ran, barefoot, into the unforgiving New York night.

After a few blocks, his adrenaline gave way to exhaustion and pain. He stumbled to a halt under a flickering streetlamp, gasping for breath, the rain washing the blood from his hands. Headlights cut through the downpour. A sleek, black SUV pulled up beside him. The passenger window glided down.

A woman with kind, worried eyes looked out at him. "Liam? Get in."

He didn't recognize her at first. He just stared, dazed.

"Get in," she repeated, her voice gentle but firm. "I' ll take you to him."

He didn't know how she knew, he didn't care. He opened the back door and collapsed onto the leather seat.

The ride was a blur. When they arrived at the hospital, the woman-he now recognized her as Evelyn Reed, a girl from his past-led him through the emergency room.

Nurse Evans met them at the entrance to the ICU. Her face was grim.

"Mr. Miller, I' m so sorry."

Liam' s heart stopped.

"You' re too late. He passed away ten minutes ago."

The world dissolved into a silent scream. They let him go into the room alone. His father lay peacefully in the bed, the lines of pain gone from his face. Liam fell to his knees beside the bed, his body finally giving in to the grief. He laid his head on the cold sheets and wept, apologizing over and over again to the man he couldn't save.

He didn't know how long he was there. Eventually, the exhaustion and blood loss caught up with him. The room spun, and he collapsed onto the floor.

When he woke up, he was in a different room, a private one. The sun was streaming through the window. He was lying in a comfortable bed, an IV drip in his arm. His hands were professionally bandaged. His torn and bloody boxer briefs had been replaced with clean, soft hospital scrubs.

On the bedside table, next to a glass of water, sat a single, sterling silver cufflink. It was intricately designed, with a small, elegant 'R' engraved on its surface. He remembered it. It was a clue, a promise of help from a past he had long forgotten.