The Billionaires Cold And Bitter Betrayal

The rain mixed with the tears on her face, hot and salty against the cold water. She let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded more like a sob. She had almost died today. She had faced the ground rushing up to meet her. And yet, that impact hadn't hurt half as much as this.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, humming with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against Anjanette's skull. She blinked, her eyelids feeling like sandpaper, and tried to lift her right arm. A sharp, searing pain shot from her shoulder down to her wrist, forcing a gasp from her dry throat. She gritted her teeth against a wave of dizziness, a lingering ghost of the concussion the doctor had warned her about. She looked down. Her arm was wrapped in thick gauze, a stark white against the bruising that was already blooming violet and green along her skin.

She was alive.

The memory of the turbulence, the screaming alarms of the private jet, and the terrifying silence that followed the crash rushed back in a fragmented, chaotic wave. She remembered the cold air rushing in through a breach in the fuselage. She remembered waiting for the end.

A nurse bustled into the room, checking the IV bag hanging by the bed. She didn't look at Anjanette's face, just at the equipment.

Excuse me, Anjanette croaked. Her voice was a ruin. Has anyone been here? My husband?

The nurse paused, her eyes flickering toward the door and then back to the chart in her hands. She seemed uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Just the flower delivery, Mrs. Horton. From a Gertrude Horton. No visitors.

Gertrude. Adam's grandmother. The only one who had ever looked at Anjanette with anything other than disdain. But Adam?

Anjanette reached for the phone on the bedside table with her good hand. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb of fractures distorting the glass, but it flickered to life. She tapped the call log. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

There were three missed calls. All from the insurance company regarding the aircraft.

Zero from Adam.

She opened the news app. The headline screamed in bold black letters: Horton Private Jet Emergency Landing – Pilot and Passenger Survive. Below it was a photo. It wasn't of the crash site. It was a file photo of Adam, looking dashing and severe in a charcoal suit, cutting a ribbon at a new tech hub in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The timestamp on the article was two hours ago.

Adam was smiling in the photo. He was cutting a ribbon while she was bleeding in a ditch.

A coldness that had nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning settled deep in her marrow. It started in her chest and spread outward, numbing her fingertips. She wasn't just unimportant; she was nonexistent.

She reached up and ripped the IV tape from her hand.

Ma'am! You can't do that! the nurse yelped, dropping the chart.

Anjanette didn't look at her. She slid her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was freezing against her bare feet.

I am signing out against medical advice, Anjanette said. Her voice was stronger now, fueled by a sudden, icy rage. I have a Grade 2 abrasion and likely a mild concussion. I will monitor for vomiting and pupil dilation myself. Give me the paperwork.

The nurse looked stunned by the sudden shift in demeanor, by the medical terminology flowing from the woman they had assumed was just a traumatized trophy wife.

Ten minutes later, Anjanette walked out of the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. She was wearing her hospital gown tucked into a pair of oversized scrubs the nurse had pitied her with, and a thin, disposable windbreaker.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. A cold, New York drizzle that soaked through the thin fabric instantly, plastering her hair to her forehead.