Chapter 8
Fletcher didn't speak. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was bruising.
"Let go," Alexa gasped, trying to twist away.
He ignored her. He dragged her toward the side exit, bypassing the main foyer. He shoved the heavy oak door open and pulled her out into the night air. The wind was howling now, carrying the scent of rain.
Lewis was waiting with the town car. Fletcher opened the back door and practically threw Alexa inside. He climbed in after her.
"Drive," he barked at the partition.
The car surged forward. The privacy glass slid up, sealing them in a soundproof box.
"You are insane," Alexa cried, rubbing her wrist. "Why would you say that? In front of everyone?"
Fletcher loosened his tie, his breathing heavy. "Did I lie? Is there a child I don't know about?"
"It's a medical issue! It's complicated!" Alexa screamed. "It's not something you use to humiliate me!"
"Humiliate you?" Fletcher laughed, a dark, terrifying sound. "You humiliate me by existing, Alexa! Every time I look at you, I see a bad investment. I see a dead end."
"Then let me go!" she yelled. "Sign the papers! Cornelia gave them to me!"
Fletcher froze. The air in the car changed instantly. "She gave you the papers?"
"Yes! And I'll sign them! I'll sign anything to get away from you!"
Fletcher's face twisted. A vein throbbed in his temple. "You want to leave? You want to run away to your little doctor life?"
"Yes!"
"Stop the car!" Fletcher shouted at the intercom.
The car screeched to a halt. They were in the middle of a side street in Queens, miles from the penthouse, miles from safety. It was raining now, a cold, sleety drizzle.
Fletcher leaned over and opened the door on her side. The wind rushed in.
"Get out."
Alexa stared at him. "What?"
"You want to be independent? Start now." He pointed to the pavement. "Get. Out."
"Fletcher, it's raining. I don't have my coat. I don't have my purse."
"I don't care," he roared. He shoved her shoulder.
Alexa stumbled out of the car, her heels skidding on the wet asphalt. She caught her balance just as the door slammed shut.
She stood there, stunned, as the taillights of the Lincoln flared red. The car accelerated, tires spraying dirty water onto her legs. Within seconds, it turned a corner and vanished.
As the car rounded the corner, Fletcher's knuckles were white on the leather armrest. He picked up the intercom. "Lewis," he snarled, his voice tight. "Circle back. Keep a visual, but stay out of sight. Tell me where she goes." He slammed the receiver down, a muscle twitching in his jaw. She was his mistake to punish, not for the city to devour.
She was alone.
The rain soaked through her thin blouse instantly. She shivered violently. She patted her pockets. Nothing. Her phone was in her purse, which was still on the floor of the car.
A group of men were standing under a bodega awning across the street. They whistled. "Hey sweetheart! Need a ride?"
Panic set in. Alexa kicked off her heels. She couldn't run in them. The pavement was freezing and rough against her bare soles. She started to run.
She ran until her lungs burned. She ran until she saw the lights of a 24-hour diner. She burst inside, dripping wet, shaking uncontrollably.
"Please," she chattered to the waitress behind the counter. "Please. I need to use a phone."
She didn't call the penthouse. She didn't call a lawyer. She dialed the only place that had ever felt like home.
"Mount Sinai dispatch," a voice answered.
"This is Dr. Emerson," Alexa sobbed. "I need... I need help."
Chapter 9
Alexa woke up on a cot in the on-call room. Someone had draped a wool blanket over her. Her head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton, and her throat was raw. The ache in her bones was profound, a deep-seated weariness from nearly forty-eight hours of trauma.
She sat up, the memory of the rain and the asphalt rushing back. She looked at her feet. They were bandaged. A nurse must have cleaned the cuts while she slept.
It was 6:00 AM.
She forced herself up. She went to the showers, scrubbing her skin until it turned pink, trying to wash off the feeling of the rain and Fletcher's hate. She put on fresh scrubs. She tied her hair back tight.
When she walked out, she wasn't the woman shivering on a Queens street corner. She was Dr. Emerson.
She walked to the nurses' station. Dr. Susan Chang was there, holding a coffee, whispering loudly to a resident.
"Did you hear? Lewis told the night guard. Fletcher kicked her out of the car. Dumped her like trash."
The resident giggled. "God, that's brutal. Do you think she's homeless now?"
Alexa walked up behind them. She slammed a metal clipboard onto the counter. The sound was like a gunshot.
Susan jumped, spilling coffee on her hand. "Jesus!"
Alexa didn't blink. Her eyes were cold, hard flint. She channeled the last of her adrenaline into her voice, forging it into a weapon. "Dr. Chang. Unless you have a board certification in gossip, I suggest you check the drainage output on bed three. His levels are critical."
Susan opened her mouth to retort, saw the look in Alexa's eyes, and closed it. "Right. On it."
She scurried away.
Alexa spent the day in a fugue state of hyper-competence. She rounded on twenty patients. She caught a medication error that would have killed a man.
At noon, a nurse handed her a phone. "Your husband is texting you. He's called the main line five times."
Alexa looked at the screen. One message.
Come home.
No apology. No explanation. Just a command.
Alexa deleted the message. She handed the phone back. "Block the number."
"But... it's Mr. Montgomery," the nurse stammered.
"Block it," Alexa ordered.
She had a bypass surgery at 2:00 PM. It was a six-hour procedure. For six hours, she stood over a chest cavity, her hands steady, her mind focused entirely on the rhythm of a stranger's heart. It was the only heart she could fix.
When she scrubbed out, it was dark again. The adrenaline faded, leaving her hollow.
She walked out of the hospital entrance. Lewis was there, standing next to the car. He looked miserable. He held a bouquet of white roses.
"Ms. Emerson," he said, stepping forward. "Mr. Montgomery sent these. He... he says he regrets the incident. He was intoxicated."
"Intoxicated," Alexa repeated flatly. She didn't take the flowers. The cloying sweetness of the roses filled the car, a funereal scent that made her stomach turn.
"Please, ma'am. He wants you to come home."
Alexa looked at the car. She should walk away. She should go to a hotel.
But then she remembered the cat.
She had left the cat alone with him. With Martha.
"Open the door, Lewis," she said.
She got in. She sat as far away from the flowers as possible. The smell of roses made her want to retch.
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