Standing in the doorway was a man in a charcoal suit, filling the frame with a presence that sucked the air out of the room.
Nico Thorne. George’s sworn enemy. The billionaire I had rejected three years ago to be with George. The man whose heart I broke to marry a monster.
“M-Mr. Thorne?” the doctor stammered, backing away. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted—”
“Get out,” Nico said. “Before I decide to use that shard of glass on you.”
He scrambled past Nico and ran down the hall.
Nico kicked the door shut and locked it. He looked at the IVs, the bruises, the emptiness in my eyes where my light used to be.
“Look at you,” he said softly. “I told you he was a snake, Eliza. You didn’t listen.”
I tried to turn away, shame burning through the pain. “Did you come… to gloat?”
“No.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing the tear from my cheek. His touch was warm, unlike the coldness of the room.
“I came to make a deal.”
I stared at him. “A deal?”
“George thinks you’re going to die tonight. He’s already planning the funeral. He’s already celebrating with your sister.”
The rage flared in my chest again, hot and suffocating.
“What… do you want?” I whispered.
He smirked, a dangerous, predatory curve of his lips.
“You rejected me once, Eliza. I won’t let that happen again.”
He held out his hand.
“Marry me. Be my wife. And I will give you the world to destroy him with.”
I didn’t stay in the hospital. I couldn't. The sterile white walls felt like a cage, and the silence was too loud. I needed to see him. I needed to look George in the eye and see if the monster I heard in that hospital room was real.
I pulled my coat tighter around my bruised body, wincing as the fabric brushed against my stitches. The night air was biting, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading in my chest.
When the taxi pulled up to the estate, my breath hitched.
Lights.
The entire house was ablaze with them. Cars lined the driveway—expensive, sleek cars that belonged to our "friends." Music drifted through the open windows, a lively jazz tune that clashed violently with the grief screaming inside me.
A party?
My baby was dead. I almost died weeks ago. And he was throwing a party?
I pushed open the heavy oak doors.
Laughter hit me like a physical blow. The foyer was filled with people holding champagne flutes, their faces flushed with excitement.
"Happy Birthday, George!" someone shouted from the living room.