I'd wanted to ask Harrison to help bandage my bleeding foot. But the words died in my throat. It felt like swallowing acid—keeping it down burned my heart, but spitting it out would destroy what little dignity I had left.
They didn't wait for a response. Harrison and Blake ushered Vera out, leaving me alone with the wreckage.
My slipper was already sodden with blood. A stark crimson stain neither of them had noticed.
Why would they? Vera had occupied the throne in Harrison's heart for years. There was no room left for me.
I took a taxi to the hospital alone.
My wrist—injured earlier protecting Vera—trembled so badly I couldn't grip the intake forms. The paper fluttered to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, but my fingers failed me again.
The line behind me grew restless. Their impatient stares stripped away my composure, and I felt the hot prick of tears threatening to spill.
A small hand snatched the paper from the floor and held it out, steady and sure.
"Ma'am, if your hand hurts, why are you here alone?"
I looked down. A girl, no older than ten.