Chapter 150
Chapter 150:
On the sidewalk, under the awning of the Pierre Hotel, Aurora Vance checked her phone. No messages from Harper yet, which was unusual. Just the wind and the rain. She stepped out to hail a cab, her boots splashing in a puddle.
A black SUV tore past her, followed closely by a limousine. The spray of dirty water hit the hem of her coat. She flinched, stepping back.
For a split second, the streetlamp illuminated the crest on the rear door of the limousine. A lion and a shield. The Kensington seal.
Aurora frowned. She felt a tightening in her chest, a sudden constriction of her airways that had nothing to do with the cold. She rubbed her sternum, watching the taillights disappear into the gloom.
Why did she feel like she should be following them?
Mount Sinai Hospital’s VIP wing was usually a place of hushed tones and soft footsteps. Tonight, it was a war zone.
Atticus burst through the double doors, his tuxedo jacket flapping open. He ignored the receptionist who stood up to greet him. He went straight for the trauma unit.
The hallway was crowded.
Vivian Kensington was already there. She was dressed in a cocktail gown, diamonds glittering at her throat, looking like she had stepped out of a magazine shoot about tragic heiresses. She was yelling at a nurse.
“I don’t care about protocols!” Vivian shrieked. “I want Dr. Shaw! Where is she p>
Eleanor Kensington sat on a bench nearby, weeping into a lace handkerchief. It was a performance. Atticus knew his aunt. Her tears were real, but they were for the uncertainty of the will, not the loss of her mother.
Edward Kensington—Vivian and Atticus’s uncle, the older brother to Eleanor—stood apart from them. He was leaning against the wall, his head bowed, looking twenty years older than he had that morning. He looked broken.
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“Atticus,” Vivian snapped, seeing him. She pointed a manicured finger at the closed doors. “They won’t let us in. It’s ridiculous. I’m her power of attorney p>
“Shut up, Vivian,” Atticus said. His voice was low, dangerous.
He walked past her to the glass doors. He pressed his hand against the pane. Inside, a swarm of blue scrubs moved around a small, frail body connected to too many tubes.
The doors hissed open. Dr. Evelyn Shaw stepped out. She looked exhausted. She pulled her surgical mask down, revealing a face etched with defeat.
The hallway went silent. Even Vivian stopped breathing.
Dr. Shaw removed her glasses. It was the universal sign.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was steady, professional, but heavy. “The hemorrhage is deep. It’s in the brainstem. Standard surgical intervention carries a ninety percent mortality rate at her age p>
Eleanor let out a wail that sounded like a siren. Vivian checked her watch, a subtle flick of the wrist that made Atticus want to strangle her.
“So that’s it?” Atticus demanded. “We just watch her die p>
“We can make her comfortable,” Shaw said. “Unless p>
“Unless what?” Edward Kensington lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, desperate. “Anything. Money is not an object p>
Shaw hesitated. She looked at her clipboard, then at the family.
“Professor Calloway mentioned a specialist weeks ago. Someone who works outside the standard networks. The one they call The Phoenix p>