"Cyril," Ruth cooed from the cradle of his arms, "hospitals charge for consultations, you know. And Samantha still owes us eight hundred eighty thousand dollars." A smile curled her lips—saccharine for him, venomous for me. "But for the sake of three years as sisters-in-law, I suppose I could lower myself to help."
Her eyes glittered.
"I'm losing a piece of myself today. She can keep me company."
At her signal, a bodyguard kicked over the medical waste bin.
Needles scattered across the floor. Dozens of them. The fluorescent light caught their tips—cold, sharp, glinting.
Ruth looked down at me from Cyril's arms, chin lifted like a queen passing sentence.
"Pick them all up. Do that, and I'll cover your consultation fee."
Cyril's gaze slid over me—brief, dismissive.
He turned to his assistant. "Do as she says."
Then he strode toward the operating room, Ruth cradled against his chest, and didn't look back.
Not once.
I knelt on the ground, sweeping my hands across the floor, groping blindly.
Within minutes, all ten fingers were riddled with puncture wounds—skin shredded, blood streaming down my wrists. Not an inch of flesh left intact.
But Nora's cries were growing weaker.