The Billionaire's Deadly Deal

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private hospital suite, distorting the lights of Queens into smeared, weeping streaks of gray. Alessandra Abbott sat alone on a leather sofa that cost more than most people's cars, but it offered no comfort. Her wet umbrella leaned against her knee, dripping a steady puddle onto the sterile marble floor.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Each movement of the second hand felt like a scalpel slicing through the thin layer of sanity she had left. She saw a small, pale face. She saw a heart monitor, its green line struggling to climb.

The heavy oak door creaked open.

A hospital administrator stepped inside. He was a small man, balding, with a suit that fit too tightly around the shoulders. He held a thin folder in his hands with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. He didn't look at her, his eyes were fixed on the floor, darting side to side like a trapped animal.

The administrator stepped forward, extending the folder. As he did, a secondary document tucked precariously inside slipped.

Papers cascaded onto the floor.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Brandt," the administrator stammered, dropping to his knees. "Clumsy. Just internal filing. I'll get it."

Alessandra didn't move to help him. She watched him scramble, his fingers fumbling with the white sheets. Then her eyes caught a signature on a document that had slid near the toe of her black stiletto.

Darius Brandt.

The ink was bold, aggressive, unmistakable. It was the same signature that was on her marriage license, on her prenup, on the checks he gave her to stay out of his way.

The administrator reached for the paper.

Alessandra slammed her heel down. The sharp point of her stiletto pierced the paper, pinning it to the floor.

"Mrs. Brandt, please, that's confidential-" The administrator froze. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, traversing the landscape of his fear.

Alessandra bent down, she ignored the man's shaking hand hovering in the air. She pulled the paper free from her heel. There was a small tear where the shoe had punctured it, right through the Brandt Industries letterhead.

It was a consent form.

Inter-Hospital Resource Allocation Agreement.

Her eyes scanned the medical jargon, then she stopped. The air left the room. The sound of the rain vanished. The ticking clock stopped.

Priority De-escalation: Estella Brandt (Renal Transplant Candidate).

Priority Re-allocation: L. Walton (Renal Transplant Candidate).

Asset Transfer: One (1) Viable Type O-Negative Kidney from the Brandt Family Organ Bank.

L. Walton. Lucas Walton. Ilene's son.

A high-pitched ringing noise started in her ears, drowning out the manager's frantic apologies. It was the sound of her own blood rushing backward.

A memory flashed, violent and bright. Estella, curling up in the hospital bed, clutching her side. Mommy, it hurts. My tummy hurts. The doctors had said a compatible donor organ was their only hope. They said she was at the top of the list.

They lied.

"It was a