Until late one night, Mrs. Hughes called across time zones.
"Mr. Rockefeller," her voice shook. "Miss Bruce is sick. She's in the ER."
My pen froze mid-stroke, leaving a huge black blot on the contract. "What happened?"
"I asked, sir," Mrs. Hughes spoke fast. "But the hospital's being difficult. They cited HIPAA regulations. Since I'm not her next of kin or designated representative, they won't tell me anything about her condition."
I stared at the black river outside. Suddenly, I saw her—last time we met, pale, hand pressed to her stomach, looking like she'd break apart any second.
I shot to my feet, dialed my assistant's extension.
"Book me on the fastest flight home."
"But the project isn't finalized yet, sir—"
I hung up. Sent the partners an explanatory email, dumped all remaining work on the VP. That multi-million dollar deal I'd spent two weeks negotiating? Worthless.
I suddenly realized. These two weeks of manic work were just me throwing a tantrum. No matter where I flew, no matter how much work I buried myself in, Ella was a splinter lodged in every breath I took.
If something happened to her, I couldn't even think about it.
The plane landed at Minneapolis-St. Paul International the next morning. I rented a car and drove straight to Rochester. The whole way, I kept checking my phone, calling Ella. No answer. I contacted the security team I'd hired. They told me they didn't know what happened—just that an ambulance had taken Ella away last night.
Useless idiots. I cursed them silently.
Earlier, the security team had called, saying Ella might have spotted them. So I told them to keep their distance. And now they didn't even know how she'd gotten hurt. What the hell was I paying them for?
When I reached the hospital, dawn was just breaking.
The corridors were quiet, only an occasional passing nurse. I found Ella's room number and looked through the small window in the door.
Then I saw something I'd never forget.
Ella lay in the hospital bed. A man was slumped beside her pillow, asleep. Their heads nearly touching. Breathing eachother's air. The man wore a white coat, brown hair slightly messy.
I stared at that scene. My exhausted nerves felt branded with a hot iron, jolting from numbness to pure pain. My vision turned red, the whole world suddenly covered in a bloody fog.
If I'd had a gun, I would've shot that man without hesitation.
I studied his profile. The more I looked, the more familiar he seemed. Then it hit me!
Two days before Ella left Manhattan, I'd taken her to Saint Heart Sanatorium. I'd seen this man then!
And when I'd come to Rochester hospital before, a thin doctor had entered Maya's room. He'd worn a mask, but the build and face—it was the same man.
Which meant Ella had been spending time with him. A lot of time.
My hand was already on the door handle, about to push it open, when a nurse suddenly stopped me.
"Sir, please don't disturb the patient."
"I'm here to see her." My voice was ice.
The nurse paused, glanced at the room, then looked at me with irritation. "Miss Bruce has Dr. Morrison with her now. You can come back later."
"With her?" The words tasted bitter.
"Yeah." Another passing nurse chimed in, lowering her voice. "He didn't even go home after his shift last night. Stayed with Miss Bruce the whole time, never left her side. It's so sweet. I wish my boyfriend was that thoughtful."
