Chapter 4 - The Will and the Ward
When I opened my eyes, forty-eight hours had vanished.
The Intensive Care Unit was quiet, punctuated only by the steady beep of the telemetry monitor and the faint, rhythmic whirr of the air mattress redistributing pressure across my dead lower half. I could feel my collarbones. I could feel the stiff plastic of the neck brace digging into my jaw.
Below my navel, there was only empty space—a heavy, suffocating phantom weight that felt as though my lower body had been dipped into quick-drying concrete.
"Sarah?"
David was sitting in a vinyl chair by the window. His tuxedo was gone, replaced by a rumpled corduroy shirt. His eyes were red-rimmed, bruised with sleeplessness. When he saw my eyelids flutter, he dropped to his knees by the bed rail, reaching for my right hand.
I couldn't squeeze his fingers back. The peripheral motor signals were frayed, my grip weak as a newborn’s.
"David..." I croaked. The endotracheal tube had been removed, leaving my vocal cords raw and inflamed.
"I’m here. I’m right here," he whispered, pressing his forehead against the mattress. "The doctors... they performed a six-hour laminectomy. They had to fuse T7 through T10 with titanium rods. Sarah, they don't know if you'll walk again. The spinal cord was severely contused."
"Harper," I forced the word past my cracked lips. "Harper... laced it."
David sighed, his shoulders slumping in deep, misguided sorrow. "I know, sweetie. She's beside herself. She hasn't slept in two days either. She’s out in the waiting room right now with our lawyer. She feels so guilty for pulling the cord so hard. She told the police that the vintage boning must have oxidized from age."
"No..." A spark of rage ignited in my chest, sending my heart rate leaping on the monitor. "Not... vintage. She... modified it. It was... deliberate."
Before David could process my words, the door swung open with a muted click.
Harper walked in. She was dressed in an impeccably tailored black cashmere coat, holding a paper cup of artisanal tea. Her face bore a calculated mask of solemn, tasteful grief. But as her eyes flicked from David’s bowed head to my conscious face, the corners of her mouth tightened into a microscopic, victorious smirk.
May you like
"David, darling," Harper purred softly. "The attorney from the Vance Trust is downstairs. We need your signature on the temporary conservatorship filing. With Sarah in an induced coma until this morning, someone has to manage the portfolio assets before the market closes."
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