Chapter 3

Three days had passed since Eleanor's stroke. Three days of watching machines breathe for her, of doctors with carefully neutral expressions, of bills piling higher than I could ever climb. The ICU room had become my second home—the steady beep of monitors my constant companion as I sat beside the bed of a woman who had never wanted me in her life.

I stared at my phone, at the Instagram profile open on my screen. Victoria's page was a carefully curated showcase of her perfect life—and now, my husband. Their Miami getaway dominated her recent posts. Sun-kissed skin, crystal waters, intimate dinners. A life happening in parallel to this nightmare.

My thumb hovered over the message button. I had tried calling Ryan repeatedly from the hospital phones, from borrowed phones, even attempting to create new email addresses. Nothing had worked. He had effectively vanished from my reach, cocooned in his fantasy with Victoria.

Finally, I tapped the message icon and typed:

"Please—Eleanor's gravely ill. Call Ryan."

I hit send and watched as the message appeared in the chat. Then I waited, my eyes fixed on the screen. The "seen" notification appeared almost immediately. My heart leapt—at least someone knew what was happening.

Then, before my eyes, the message disappeared. Vanished, as if I'd never sent it at all.

She had deleted it.

I stared at the blank message field, my hand trembling so badly I nearly dropped the phone. Victoria had seen my desperate plea about a dying woman—Ryan's mother—and had deliberately erased it. No response, no acknowledgment. Just deletion, as if Eleanor's life meant nothing.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, a metallic reminder that this was real. This was happening.

---

Miles away, in a luxury suite overlooking the Miami coastline, Victoria Hayes carefully placed Ryan's phone face-down on the nightstand. The message from Sarah had unsettled her, but only momentarily. She'd deleted it quickly, efficiently, just as she'd been intercepting and deleting Sarah's emails to Ryan's personal account for the past three days.

She poured two glasses of champagne, the bubbles catching the golden light of sunset streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Ryan emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp.

"What should we do tonight?" he asked, accepting the glass she offered.

Victoria moved closer, the silk of her robe whispering against his bare chest. "I was thinking we could stay in," she murmured, taking his phone and turning it off completely. "Phones off, just us. The world can wait."

Ryan smiled, setting his silenced phone aside without a second thought. "I like the way you think."

"I called the hotel," she said, trailing a finger down his arm. "I extended our stay through Sunday. I hope that's okay."

"More than okay," he replied, pulling her closer. "Best decision I've made in years."

As Victoria melted into his embrace, she pushed away the fleeting image of an ICU room, of machines keeping an old woman alive. Such thoughts had no place in her perfect moment. This was her time, finally. Nothing would ruin it—not Sarah, not Eleanor, not reality itself.

---

Back in Chicago, I sat in the hospital cafeteria during my break, a cold cup of coffee untouched before me. I had one last option. I dialed the number for Ryan's office, praying his assistant might help.

"Mitchell Partners, this is Alexis speaking."

"Alexis, it's Sarah Mitchell," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I need to reach Ryan urgently. It's a family emergency."

A pause. "Mrs. Mitchell, I'm so sorry. Mr. Mitchell instructed us he's off the grid until Sunday. Some kind of digital detox retreat."

My laugh was hollow. "Digital detox. Right."

"Is there anything I can help with?" Genuine concern colored her voice.

I wanted to scream the truth—that her boss was having an affair while his mother died alone. Instead, I simply said, "No. Thank you for trying."

I ended the call and looked at the clock on the wall. Eleanor's doctor had given her forty-eight hours without improvement before they needed to "discuss options." We were already at seventy-two.

As I walked back toward the ICU, my phone chimed with a notification. Ryan had posted a new photo—a sunset yacht cruise, champagne glasses clinking, Victoria radiant in a white dress that looked suspiciously bridal.

The caption read: "Some escapes should last forever. #extendedstay #untilsunday"

Sunday. Four more days. Eleanor didn't have four days.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and pushed open the door to Eleanor's room. The machines continued their rhythmic beeping, but something had changed. Her breathing seemed more labored, the pauses between breaths stretching longer.

I reached for the call button as a new emotion settled over me—something colder and more focused than rage. Something that felt dangerously like purpose.