Sabina stayed under close observation for several hours. The team brought her fever down and kept her comfortable. She slept holding my finger, her lashes resting against cheeks that slowly returned to their usual color.

Only once her breathing steadied did my own body start to tremble.

I sat beside her bed under the dim blue glow of the monitor, still in the same sweater. My bracelet had left a red crescent where it pressed into my skin.

I studied the mark without drama. It wasn’t the worst part of the evening. The worst part was the look in Thatcher’s eyes when he decided his mother’s dinner mattered more than his daughter’s suffering.

At 2:13 in the morning, I made a call. Winslow Crane answered after four rings.

He’d represented me for almost ten years — an exact, cautious man who wore bow ties sincerely and treated corporate bylaws with the seriousness others reserve for sacred texts.