Chapter 90
Elara
Mr. Vane Senior dismissed me with a wave of his liver-spotted hand.
"Go back and wait for the investigation results." His voice carried the same tone one might use to dismiss a servant who'd spilled wine. "We'll contact you when we have... clarity."
I pushed myself up from the marble floor. My legs buckled immediately—nine hours of kneeling had turned them into dead weights, pins and needles exploding through both limbs. I swayed, caught myself against a side table.
"Careful now," Tristan murmured from his perch by the fireplace, voice dripping with false concern. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself on the way out."
Victoria smirked from the doorway. "Don't think this is over, Elara. When the truth comes out, you'll regret—"
"I'll be fine," I cut her off. My voice came out hoarse but steady. "Thank you for your concern."
Julian was on his phone near the window, his back to me. "—yes, keep monitoring her vitals. I'll be there within the hour." A pause. "Sloane, I said I'm coming. Just... rest."
He glanced over his shoulder at me, mouth opening as if to speak. "I'll send—"
His phone buzzed again. He looked down at the screen, frown deepening. "It's the hospital. I have to—" He was already turning away, phone pressed to his ear. "Dr. Chen? What's wrong?"
I didn't wait to hear more.
The iron gates of Blackwood Estate clanged shut behind me at 5:47 AM. The sound echoed down the empty street like a verdict.
My legs screamed with every step. The champagne-colored dress—Julian's dress—was wrinkled and damp with cold sweat. My carefully styled hair from last night hung in tangled strands around my face. I must have looked like I'd crawled out of someone's one-night stand.
The thought made me laugh. A bitter, broken sound that startled a early-morning jogger passing by.
Fifth Avenue was deserted. The subway wouldn't start running for another hour. I tried to hail a cab—one, two, three yellow cars slowed, then sped up again when I told them the destination.
"Bronx? Lady, it's five in the morning. Find someone else."
The fourth driver didn't even let me finish. He took one look at my disheveled appearance and hit the gas.
I checked my phone. $4.73 in my bank account. My wallet was back at the Iron District garage. Even if I could get an Uber, I couldn't pay for it.
So I walked.
Down Fifth Avenue, the hem of my dress dragging against sidewalk grime. Past the sleeping mansions of the Upper East Side, their windows dark and indifferent. Through Central Park as the sky turned from black to gray, my heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that matched my throbbing pulse.
Pain became a constant companion. Every step sent knives through my kneecaps—the skin had broken sometime during the night, blood seeping through the delicate fabric and drying into stiff patches. My feet blistered in the expensive heels. The thin coat I'd grabbed on the way out did nothing against December's bite.
I passed early-morning delivery trucks, a homeless man curled under a pile of cardboard, a deli owner rolling up his shutters. Normal people. People whose biggest concern was probably whether they'd remembered to buy milk, not whether they'd survive a powerful family's vendetta.
By the time I reached Times Square, the sky had lightened to a watery gray. Tourists were starting to emerge, cameras ready. I kept my head down, hoping the tangled hair hid my face.
The walk stretched on. Forty-Second Street. Fifty-Ninth. The neighborhoods shifted from gleaming skyscrapers to worn brownstones to graffiti-tagged walls. The distance from Blackwood to the Iron District was about twelve miles. At my current pace, barely faster than a shuffle, it would take four hours.
Four hours of putting one foot in front of the other. Four hours of telling myself I would not cry, would not call anyone, would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I made it to 125th Street before the first wave of dizziness hit. The world tilted sideways. I grabbed a lamppost, knuckles white, waiting for my vision to clear.
A woman with a baby stroller gave me a wide berth. "You okay, honey?"
"Fine." The word came out as a croak. "Just... tired."
She looked unconvinced but moved on.
I kept walking.
The Bronx border appeared like a mirage around nine AM. Miguel's bodega was just opening as I stumbled past, and he looked up from arranging produce, eyes widening.
"Miss Elara? You look—"
"I'm fine, Miguel. Just... need to get home."
His mouth pressed into a worried line, but he didn't stop me.
Three more blocks. The converted garage finally came into view, its rusted fire escape and peeling paint the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen.
I fumbled with the keys. Dropped them twice before managing to unlock the door.
The apartment was empty—of course it was. My legs gave out the moment the door closed behind me. I collapsed onto the cold cement floor, too exhausted to even crawl to my bed. The champagne dress pooled around me like a dirty cloud.
I tried to assess the damage. My knees were swollen and purple, skin broken in several places, crusted with dried blood. My hands shook uncontrollably. When I touched my forehead, my palm came away slick with sweat.
Fever. Definitely fever.
I needed water. Needed to clean the wounds. Needed to...
My phone buzzed. Mamá.
I stared at the screen, watching it ring and ring. On the fourth buzz, I answered.
"Elara? Elara, Mr. Julian's assistant called me, said there was some trouble last night—"
"It's handled." My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "The money thing."
Silence stretched between us. Then: "Elara..."
"He took it, Mamá. Dad's insurance money. Mr. Vane took all of it, said it went to 'raising me.'" A laugh bubbled up, sharp and wrong. "Guess I should be grateful, right? For the privilege of being their charity case."
"Elara, don't—"
"Don't what? Don't be angry that the money Dad died to provide for me got spent on a family that never wanted me in the first place?"
More silence. I could hear her breathing, could almost see her in the cramped maid's quarters at Blackwood, one hand pressed to her mouth.
"Where are you now?" she finally asked.
"Home. The Bronx."
"You... you walked?"
I didn't answer.
"Dios mío." Her voice cracked. "Elara, you need to be careful. These people, they—"
"I know what they are, Mamá."
"Then you know..." She trailed off. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "Take care of yourself, mija. Your mamá... I can't help you right now. I can't."
The admission hung between us, heavy as a stone.
"I know," I said softly. "It's okay. I understand."
I ended the call and let the phone drop to the floor beside me.
I needed to move. Needed to clean up, take care of the injuries. But my body refused to cooperate. When I tried to stand, my vision grayed at the edges.
The bathroom was only ten feet away. Might as well have been ten miles.
I crawled. Dignity was a luxury I couldn't afford right now.
The tile was cool against my burning skin. I managed to turn on the faucet, splashed water on my face. It came away pink with diluted blood.
I tried to pour water into a cup to drink. My hands shook so badly the ceramic slipped from my grip and shattered on the floor.
I stared at the pieces. They reminded me of something. My father's watch, smashed on the school hallway floor. My life, broken into fragments that could never quite fit back together.
The fever spiked. Chills wracked my body even as sweat poured down my face.
I needed help. Needed a doctor. Needed—
The edges of my vision went dark.
The last thing I saw before consciousness slipped away was my own reflection in the bathroom mirror—a ghost girl in a ruined dress, eyes hollow, lips cracked and bleeding.
Then nothing.