Rising From Wreckage: Starfall's Epic Comeback

Rain didn't just fall in Manhattan tonight. It hammered against the asphalt like it was trying to break the city open.

Analia Graves felt the impact before she heard it.

The world spun violently to the left. Metal shrieked against metal, a sound that vibrated through her teeth and settled deep in her bone marrow. Then came the slam. Her sedan kissed the guardrail with a force that snapped her head back against the headrest.

Silence followed, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, mocking slap of the windshield wipers.

Pain bloomed behind her eyes, hot and white. She blinked, trying to clear the haze, but a warm, sticky liquid was already trickling down her temple, stinging her eye. She reached up, her fingers coming away wet and dark in the flashing dashboard lights.

Blood.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the shock. She needed help. She needed safety.

Her hand, trembling so violently she could barely control it, fumbled for her phone in the passenger seat. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb of glass over the wallpaper she had set three years ago-a photo of her and Clive on their honeymoon in Bora Bora. He wasn't smiling in the picture, but she was.

She pressed the speed dial for "Husband."

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound of the ringback tone was a lifeline, a thin thread connecting her to the only person who was supposed to protect her.

The call disconnected.

Analia stared at the screen, her heart skipping a beat. He must have pressed the wrong button. Or maybe the signal was bad in the storm. Her chest tightened, restricting the air in her lungs. She dialed again.

This time, it was answered on the second ring.

"Mrs. Wilson," a voice said. It wasn't Clive. It was smooth, professional, and utterly detached. Liam, Clive's executive assistant.

"Liam," Analia croaked. Her voice was a broken rasp. She coughed, tasting copper. "Liam, put Clive on. Please."

"Mr. Wilson is currently in a debriefing regarding the PR crisis," Liam said. He sounded like he was reading from a script. "He gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed."

"I... I had an accident," Analia whispered. The pain in her head was throbbing now, a drumbeat in time with her racing pulse. "I'm on the highway. My car... there's blood."

There was a pause on the other end. A muffled sound, like a hand over the receiver. Then, Liam's voice returned, but the tone had shifted. It wasn't concern. It was embarrassment.

"Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson says..." Liam hesitated.

"Says what?" she pleaded. Tears mixed with the blood on her cheek.

"He says to stop the theatrics," Liam said, his voice dropping an octave. "He said, and I quote, 'Hang up. Tell her I don't have time for her emotional blackmail tonight.'"

The line went dead.

Analia didn't lower the phone immediately. She held it to her ear, listening to the hollow drone of the disconnect tone. It was louder