“You should have kept your mouth shut, Sloane,” Nathan said.

The line went dead.

Sloane stared at the black screen, her mouth open in shock.

A sharp, agonizing contraction hit me, harder than any pain I had ever felt.

I cried out, my fingers digging into the edge of the quartz island so hard my knuckles turned white.

“Elizabeth!” Margaret cried, rushing to my side.

“The elevator,” Mr. Vance said, looking toward the hallway.

“We need to get her to the lobby,” Mr. Vance said.

“The ambulance will never make it up here in time with the storm,” he said.

I gasped for air, the pain holding me in a vice-like grip.

Through the large glass windows, the sky had turned a dark, bruised purple.

I looked at Sloane, who was standing frozen by the counter, her phone still in her hand.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall chimed, the metallic sound ringing through the penthouse.

The metal doors of the private elevator slid open with a soft, mechanical hiss.

I expected to see the police, or perhaps one of the medical team Mr. Vance had called.