The crowd erupted with laughter. One after another, glasses were emptied—wine, whiskey—cold liquid splashed down on her hair, her face, her shoulders. The stinging smell of alcohol filled her lungs, soaking through her thin white dress.
By the end of the "welcome" party, Helena couldn't tell if her face was wet from tears or liquor. Her body felt like it was falling apart. She lay motionless on the cold marble floor, her stomach twisting so violently she thought she might die there.
With the last of her strength, she reached out and clutched Jackson's trouser leg.
"Jackson... take me... to a hospital," she gasped. "It hurts... so much..."
Suddenly Laica screamed. "Ah! My hand!"
People looked. A shard from a broken glass had nicked the back of her hand; a few beads of blood appeared.
Jackson's expression changed instantly. He wrenched Helena's hand away and rushed to Laica's side, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of glass.
"Don't be afraid," he said anxiously. "I'll take you to the hospital right now."
Helena's vision blurred. The pain in her abdomen rolled like black waves, swallowing her whole. Then everything went dark.