A doctor had already spent forty-five minutes picking shards of crystal and terrace debris from her palms, stitching up three deep lacerations, and slathering her hands in medical-grade antibacterial salve before wrapping them in clean, white gauze.
“Ten stitches on the left, six on the right,” the doctor had reported briskly to Nathaniel an hour ago. “Severe contusions along the ribs, likely hairline fractures from the railing impact. She should be hospitalized for observation.”
Rose had immediately refused.
“I can’t stay,” she had said firmly, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. “My little sister is home alone. She needs her medication at seven o’clock, and I have to be there to administer the nebulizer.”
Nathaniel had merely looked at her, taken out his phone, murmured three sentences to someone named Harrison, and pocketed the device.
“A private nurse from the Callaway Foundation is already at your apartment in Queens,” Nathaniel had told her without asking for permission. “Her name is Nurse Evelyn Clark. She has twenty years of pediatric and respiratory experience. Your sister has her medication, a hot meal, and a security guard outside the front door. You are staying here until my mother speaks to you.”
Rose had bristled at his arrogance, but when she checked her phone, there was a text from fourteen-year-old Maya:
*‘Rose!! The sweetest lady is here with soup from that fancy French place and she says you’re a hero?! What is happening?! Are you okay?!’*
Rose had exhaled a breath she felt she’d been holding since she tackled Eleanor at the edge of the sky.
Now, the heavy mahogany door swung open, and Nathaniel walked back into the room. He had changed out of his ruined wedding tux into a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and charcoal dress slacks. The absence of his jacket made him look slightly less like a corporate titan and more like a predator stripped for action.
“The District Attorney just left,” Nathaniel said, walking over to the side of Eleanor’s hospital bed.
Eleanor was propped up on plush pillows, an IV drip running into her right wrist. Her color was slowly returning, though dark purple bruises were blossoming along her collarbones where Victoria’s hands had struck her.
“And?” Eleanor asked, her voice stronger now, laced with the sharp, aristocratic grit that had helped her run Callaway International for twenty years after her husband died.
“Victoria is in custody at the Central Booking facility,” Nathaniel replied, his face an impenetrable mask. “Her father tried to call the Mayor. The Mayor didn’t pick up. I made sure he understood that if he intervened, Callaway Capital would pull forty million dollars of funding from his upcoming transit initiative.”
“Good,” Eleanor snapped, her jaw tightening. “Let her sit in a cell. The little snake thought she could speed up her inheritance before the ink on the prenuptial agreement was dry.”
Nathaniel looked down at his mother, his brow furrowing slightly. “You knew, didn’t you? That’s why you pulled her away from the reception.”
Eleanor let out a dry, bitter laugh. “I didn’t just know, Nathaniel. I had the forensic audit in my clutch purse. Which, by the way, went over the side of the building.”
She turned her gaze toward Rose.
“Come here, child,” Eleanor commanded softly.
Rose hesitated, then stood up, her sore ribs aching with every movement. She walked over to the edge of the hospital bed. Up close, Eleanor’s eyes were the exact same piercing gray as Nathaniel’s, but they carried decades of accumulated wisdom and an unmistakable warmth that seemed reserved only for a very few.
“Show me your hands,” the old woman said.
Rose held them out, the neat white bandages stark against her pale skin.
Eleanor reached up and gently rested her fingertips beneath Rose’s wrists, being careful not to touch the raw skin. Her eyes softened until they looked misty.
“The doctors told me what happened,” Eleanor whispered. “They said if you had let go for even half a second while the wind caught my skirt, we both would have dropped. They said you hooked your ankle through the structural steel of the floor drain to keep from sliding.”
“I didn’t think about it,” Rose murmured honestly. “I just saw you falling. My body moved before my brain could tell me to be scared.”
“Most people’s brains tell them to run,” Eleanor countered. “Victoria’s brain told her to push. Two hundred people in that room have kissed my ring for twenty years, and not one of them reached out a finger. You tore your own flesh apart to save an old woman you had never met.”
Eleanor looked up at Nathaniel.
“She’s not going back to carrying trays, Nathaniel.”
