Chapter 3

Cole's POV

The lighting inside the upscale lounge in Lower Manhattan was dim and intimate.

Sitting at the bar, I carefully smoothed a cartoon Band-Aid over a practically invisible scratch on Mia’s right index finger.

"Cole, am I being too needy?" Mia leaned against my shoulder, looking up at me with sheer adoration in her eyes. "Stella sounded really weak on the phone just now. Do you think she's actually sick? Maybe you should go check on her... I'll be okay by myself."

I scoffed, grabbing my glass of whiskey and downing it in one gulp. "Ignore her. She’s just insanely jealous. Every time my attention is on you, she suddenly comes down with some mystery illness just to play the victim."

"Last month it was migraines, this month she’s 'bleeding.' I'm so sick of this routine."

"But..." Mia bit her lip, her finger tracing absentminded circles on my chest. "I'm just so scared I'm ruining your marriage. I mean, you're my guide, but you're her husband."

"She doesn't get the soul of extreme sports at all." I caught her hand, my voice dripping with absolute certainty. "Without me, you can't even get ten feet off the ground. I have a responsibility to you, and that’s a reality she just has to accept."

Right at that moment, the heavy lounge doors slammed open.

Paul, one of my climbing buddies, burst in without an umbrella. He was soaked to the bone, his face as pale as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"Cole! What the fuck are you doing still sitting here drinking?!" Paul stormed over and grabbed me by the collar, shouting loud enough to turn heads all over the bar.

I scowled, violently slapping his hands away. "What the hell is your problem? I'm talking Mia through a mental block."

"A mental block? Fuck your mental block!" Paul panted heavily, slamming his phone down onto the bar counter. "Look at this! It's blowing up all over Twitter!"

Confused, I looked down.

Playing on the screen was a slightly grainy, shaky bystander video. The location was the ER entrance of the most exclusive private medical center on the Upper East Side.

A helicopter bearing a filthy-rich family crest had just touched down.

A tall man in a custom black trench coat was sprinting madly toward the trauma bay, carrying a woman completely covered in blood.

The man's coat half-hid her face, but dangling from her limp, blood-soaked arm was a totally familiar platinum bracelet.

The birthday gift I bought Stella last year.

My heart violently skipped a beat. The alcohol in my system instantly evaporated into a cold sweat oozing from my pores.

"What is this?" I snatched the phone up, my voice shaking without my permission.

"That’s Julian Crawford! The heir to the Crawford Medical Group!" Paul glared at me, his teeth gritted. "The video was taken ten minutes ago. Escaping ER nurses said the woman was hemorrhaging and already in shock!"

"Cole, your wife is dying, and you're here putting Band-Aids on another woman?!"

"No way... she was just faking it on the phone..." I muttered to myself, frantically digging my own phone out of my pocket. With trembling fingers, I dialed Stella's number.

Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

Just as I was about to lose my mind, the call finally connected.

"Stella! Where are you?! That’s not you in the video, right?!" I roared into the receiver, drawing stares from everyone in the bar.

It wasn't Stella's voice on the other end. All I heard was the suffocating, rhythmic beeping of hospital monitors.

Then, an incredibly cold male voice cut through.

"She is currently in surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy." Julian's voice was as calm as a judge handing down a death sentence. "If she doesn't make it off the operating table tonight, Cole... this was your last conversation."

"Who the hell are you to answer her phone?! I'm her husband! I'm the father of that child!" I bellowed hysterically, like a wild animal cornered against a wall.

"Oh? The father?" Julian let out a dark, mockingly cruel laugh. "The father of the child that never even got the chance to be born?"

The dial tone hit me before I could respond.

The phone slipped from my palm, slamming heavily onto the marble floor of the bar. The screen instantly shattered into a million pieces.

Just like my world, collapsing in on itself.