Chapter 4

Elara POV:

Candice's eyes glinted with a feverish, malicious light. She grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the restroom, not back to the ballroom, but towards a service exit that led to the hotel's private marina. The charity auction included evening yacht cruises on the Hudson.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, my breath coming in ragged, shallow spurts. The allergic reaction was getting worse.

"Just a little fresh air, darling," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "It'll do you good."

We stepped out onto the slick, wooden dock. The city lights glittered across the dark, churning water. A massive, gleaming white yacht was moored at the end of the pier, its deck filled with laughing, champagne-sipping guests. The deck suddenly lurched as a swell from a passing ferry hit the pier. The movement was sharp and unexpected.

I stumbled, my balance already compromised.

Candice saw her opportunity. With a vicious shove, she sent me sprawling over the edge.

The icy water of the Hudson shocked the air from my lungs. I went under, the cold a brutal, suffocating blanket. Panic flared as my dress, heavy and waterlogged, tangled around my legs, trying to drag me down.

I kicked frantically, my head breaking the surface. I saw Candice on the dock. She didn't scream for help. Instead, with chilling calculation, she took a step back, slipped on a wet patch, and tumbled into the water herself, a few feet away from the pier ladder, letting out a theatrical shriek.

"Help! Somebody, help us!"

Shouts erupted from the yacht's deck. People pointed, their faces masks of horror.

I saw Brooks burst through the crowd, his face pale with terror. He vaulted over the railing onto the dock without a second's thought.

"Get them out!" he roared, his voice cracking with desperation.

The waves were choppy, the current strong. The crew threw down life preservers, but the wind kept snatching them away.

"Sir, we can only get a rope to one of them at a time!" a deckhand yelled over the wind. "The current is too strong! Which one?"

It was a choice. A life-or-death choice.

Brooks's eyes, wild with panic, darted between me and Candice. I was further out, struggling against the weight of my clothes, my throat closing, my vision starting to dim. Candice was closer, clinging to a pylon, crying hysterically.

He didn't hesitate for a single heartbeat.

"Her," he shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Candice. "Get Candice first."

The word struck me with the force of a physical blow. It echoed in the vast, empty space where my heart used to be. Her.

The world dissolved into a blur of cold and darkness. I saw the rescue rope arc through the air, landing perfectly beside Candice. I saw the crew haul her onto the dock, into Brooks's waiting arms. I saw him crush her to his chest, his face buried in her wet hair, murmuring her name like a prayer.

He never once looked back at me.

The last of my strength gave out. I stopped fighting. I let the cold water take me, pulling me down into the silent, black depths. It was almost peaceful. An end to the pain. My last conscious thought was of his face, his eyes choosing her. Always her.

I woke up to the rhythmic beeping of a machine and the smell of antiseptic. A hospital. Again.

A kind-faced nurse was adjusting my IV drip. "You're very lucky," she said softly. "A coast guard patrol found you. Hypothermia, anaphylactic shock... another few minutes and you wouldn't have made it."

She bustled around, checking my vitals. "Should I call your family? Is there anyone you'd like me to contact?"

"I don't have any family," I whispered.

The words hung in the air, a simple statement of fact that felt like a life sentence. My parents had abandoned me. The system had shuffled me along. And now Brooks, the man I thought was my savior, had thrown me away, too. He had watched me drown and chosen someone else.

For three days, I lay in that sterile room, recovering. Through the thin walls, I could hear the murmur of voices from the next room. I could hear Brooks's low, soothing tone, reading to Candice. I could hear her laughter, weak but triumphant.

He never came to see me. Not once. He didn't send a note. He didn't even ask a nurse how I was doing. It was as if I had truly died in that river.

On the fourth day, I was discharged. Brooks's assistant, a young man named Mark with apologetic eyes, was waiting for me. He handed me an envelope.

"Mr. Fields sends his apologies," he said, unable to meet my gaze. "He's arranged for this to cover your medical expenses and... for your trouble."

Inside the envelope was a check for one hundred thousand dollars. Hush money.

I handed it back to him. "I don't want his money."

My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. I looked past him, my eyes empty. "Where is he?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Mark shuffled his feet. "He and Ms. Robinson left for the Caribbean this morning. The doctors recommended a warmer climate for her recovery."

Of course. He was on a private island with her, while I was being paid off like a dismissed employee.

I walked out of the hospital alone, the city noise a dull roar in my ears. I felt nothing. The pain had been so great, so absolute, that it had burned itself out, leaving only a vast, cold emptiness. I was a shell.

As I stood on the curb, waiting for a taxi I wasn't sure where to go to, a payphone on the corner began to ring. It rang and rang, a shrill, insistent sound in the middle of the afternoon. On a whim, I walked over and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Elara Vance?" The voice was unfamiliar, professional.

"Yes?"

"This is the office of Dr. Albright. We're calling to confirm your appointment. Are you still able to proceed?"

The final piece of my plan. My escape. My death.

"Yes," I said, my voice steady for the first time in days. "I'll be there."