One. Two. Three.

At fifty, I opened my eyes.

The sterile white ceiling of the VIP wing stared back at me.

I sat up slowly, a wave of intense nausea washing over my stomach.

My head spun, a lingering side effect of the bitter liquid Jared had forced me to drink before the ambulance arrived.

I swung my legs over the side of the high hospital bed.

The cold air of the room hit my bare skin, making me shiver under the thin cotton gown.

I had to move quickly.

My handbag was sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room, untouched.

I stood up, my knees trembling, and forced myself to walk across the polished floor.

I unzipped the bag and reached into the secret compartment sewn into the lining.

My fingers wrapped around the small, clear silicone travel bottle.

Before the paramedics had wheeled me out of our penthouse, I had managed to scrape the residue of the brewed tea from the bottom of my mug into this bottle.

It was barely two tablespoons of liquid, but it was enough.