Tangled With Her Arrogant Boss

"Push the gurney! Move!"

The deafening wail of the ambulance siren sliced through the thunderstorm over Manhattan. The heavy rear doors of the vehicle were kicked open. Rain lashed down in thick, freezing sheets.

The paramedics yanked the stretcher out. The rubber wheels hit the flooded asphalt, spraying dirty water across the emergency room entrance.

Corrine Ratcliff curled into a tight ball on the narrow mattress. Her hands gripped her massive, swollen belly. The thin white hospital gown was already soaked through. Blood mixed with amniotic fluid, dripping steadily onto the metal frame of the gurney.

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

Nurse Sharon Mills sprinted out of the sliding glass doors. She grabbed the front of the gurney.

"I've got her! Clear the hallway!" Sharon screamed.

The wheels screeched against the polished linoleum floor of the ER lobby. Corrine stared up. The harsh, blinding white fluorescent lights on the ceiling flashed past her eyes in a rapid, dizzying blur. Her stomach cramped so hard she thought her spine would snap in half.

Dr. Alistair Finch, the hospital's top obstetrician, power-walked toward them. His face was grim. He snatched the chart from the paramedic.

Another contraction hit. It felt like a serrated knife dragging through Corrine's pelvis.

A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat. Her fingers clamped around the cold metal side-rails of the gurney. She squeezed until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

Dr. Finch snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. He pressed his hands firmly against her lower abdomen. His thick eyebrows instantly pulled together into a hard knot.

"Breech," Dr. Finch barked. "Both of them. The twins are completely misaligned."

Before anyone could speak, the fetal heart monitor attached to Corrine's stomach let out a piercing, high-pitched alarm. The red light flashed frantically.

"Fetal distress!" Sharon yelled, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. "Baby A's heart rate is plummeting. It's dropping fast!"

"Activate the OB Rapid Response Team! Stat C-section, now!" Sharon shouted down the hall.

Dr. Finch leaned over the gurney. His face was inches from Corrine's.

"Listen to me," Dr. Finch said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "If I don't cut you open right this second, you and both of these babies are going to die. Do you understand?"

Cold sweat drenched Corrine's hair, pasting it to her forehead. The pain was blinding, tearing her body apart from the inside out. She nodded frantically.

Sharon shoved a thick stack of papers onto Corrine's chest.

"Consent forms," Sharon said, her voice shaking. "We need a family member or a legal medical proxy to sign this right now. We can't operate without it."

Family.

The word made Corrine's chest cave in. Her brain went completely blank. Her trembling hand instinctively reached for the pillow next to her head. Her fingers brushed against her phone. It was slick with her own sweat.

The screen lit up. The wallpaper was a wedding photo of her and her husband, Cristofer Clarke. They were standing apart. He wasn't even looking at her. The image made her stomach twist with nausea.

Her thumb slipped twice on the glass before she managed to unlock it. She dialed the private line. The line Cristofer swore was open for her twenty-four hours a day.

The phone pressed against her ear.

Ring.

Ring.

The cold, monotonous sound hammered against Corrine's fracturing nerves.

Another wave of agony crashed over her. Her back arched off the mattress. The phone slipped from her sweaty palm and slammed hard against her chest.

"Corrine! The heart rate is still dropping!" Sharon urged, grabbing her shoulder. "The anesthesiologist is waiting. We are out of time!"

Corrine bit down on her lip again. Fresh blood pooled in her mouth. She grabbed the phone and hit redial.

The automated system clicked.

"You have reached the voicemail of Cristofer Clarke."

She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced air into her burning lungs.

"Cris," she sobbed into the speaker, her voice cracking. "Please. Save our babies. Please..."

"One more minute," Dr. Finch warned, his voice turning harsh. "One more minute and the lack of oxygen will cause permanent brain damage to the infants."

A hot tear slid down Corrine's pale cheek. The reality hit her like a physical blow to the face. The heir to the Clarke media empire was not coming. He was not going to save her tonight.

A sickening, heavy drop pulled at her pelvis. More warm blood gushed between her legs. The edges of her vision started to turn black.

Sharon reached for Corrine's designer handbag. "I'm going to find your contacts. We have to call the Clarke family."

"No!" Corrine gasped.

She lunged forward and grabbed Sharon's wrist. Her nails dug into the nurse's skin.

She knew exactly what those old-money aristocrats thought of her. She was just an orphan. A commoner. They would rather watch her bleed out on this table than lift a finger to help her.

She bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain forced her fading consciousness back into focus. She propped herself up on her elbows.

She stared dead into Dr. Finch's eyes.

"I am conscious and I am my own legal proxy!" Corrine gasped, her voice surprisingly fierce despite the agony. "The law states I can sign for myself. If my babies die because you waited for a man who isn't coming, I will make sure you lose your medical license and this hospital goes bankrupt! Give me the pen."

Dr. Finch hesitated. The sheer desperation and legal threat in her eyes caught him off guard. But the red alarm on the monitor shrieked louder. He had no choice.

Sharon thrust a black pen into her hand.

Corrine pressed the tip to the paper. Her hand shook violently. She dragged the ink across the signature line, leaving a jagged, distorted version of her name.

The moment the pen lifted, a massive wave of dark, suffocating heaviness crashed over her. Her arms gave out. She collapsed back onto the mattress.

"Go! Go! Go!" Dr. Finch yelled.

The gurney was shoved violently through the double doors of the operating room.

Outside in the hallway, the heavy doors swung shut with a loud thud. Sharon stood there, catching her breath. She looked down at the floor.

Corrine's phone lay on the tiles. The screen was still glowing. A smear of fresh blood covered the glass.

Sharon stared at the bloody phone on the floor.

She knelt down and picked it up. The screen was still unlocked, displaying the call log. Dozens of red missed calls to 'Cristofer' filled the screen. Sharon looked at the closed doors of the OR. She thought about the pale, bleeding woman who had to fight for her own right to surgery because her billionaire husband wouldn't pick up the phone. A tight knot of anger formed in Sharon's chest.

She wiped the blood off the screen with her thumb. She swiped out of the call log and opened the text messages. She tapped on the first name pinned at the top of Corrine's emergency contact list: Eleanor. Sharon rapidly typed out a message with shaking fingers, detailing the absolute nightmare unfolding in the surgical wing, and pressed send.

Ten miles away, on the Upper East Side, the bass from the nightclub speakers vibrated through the leather VIP booths.

Eleanor Fletcher sat back against the cushions. She swirled the martini in her glass, completely bored.

Suddenly, the phone inside her limited-edition Birkin bag started vibrating frantically against the leather.

She groaned in annoyance. She set the glass down on the glass coffee table and pulled out her phone.

The moment her eyes focused on the screen, the breath left her lungs.

Hospital... bleeding... save her babies.

The broken words stabbed into Eleanor's eyes. The blood drained from her face. Her skin turned ice cold.

She shot up from the sofa. Her knee slammed into the edge of the glass table. A tower of champagne flutes tipped over. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne soaked into the expensive rug.

A Wall Street trust-fund kid sitting next to her reached out to grab her arm. "Whoa, babe, what's the rush-"

"Get the fuck off me!" Eleanor roared.

The guy flinched, pulling his hand back as if he'd been burned.

Eleanor didn't look back. She sprinted out of the club in her five-inch Louboutin heels. She shoved past the bouncers and burst into the freezing rain.

She unlocked her phone and dialed Cristofer's number while running toward her Aston Martin.

The mechanical Verizon voice answered. The subscriber you have dialed is not available.

"You piece of shit," Eleanor hissed. She threw her phone onto the passenger seat.

She ripped the car door open, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed her foot on the brake. She twisted the key. The V12 engine roared like a wild animal. The sports car shot out into the wet Manhattan streets.

At a red light on Fifth Avenue, Eleanor's hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached.

She glanced at the digital dashboard screen. A Twitter notification popped up. It was the top trending topic. A bright red siren emoji sat next to the hashtag: CristoferClarke & ArielleOrozco Late Night Pool Party.

Eleanor's heart stopped. She leaned forward and tapped the screen.

A set of high-definition paparazzi photos from TMZ loaded instantly.

There was Cristofer. His dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Hollywood's top actress, Arielle Orozco, had her arms wrapped intimately around his bicep. They were standing by a glowing blue pool at a private villa in the Hamptons.

She swiped to the next image. It was a GIF. Arielle laughed, tilting her head back to rest on Cristofer's shoulder. They walked together into the dark house.

Eleanor's entire body started to shake. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug so deep into the steering wheel they left permanent scratches in the leather.

"Corrine is bleeding out," Eleanor screamed at the empty car, her throat burning. "And you are fucking that manipulative bitch!"

The light turned green. Eleanor slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

The Aston Martin ignored the speed limit, tearing through the rain. She put in her Bluetooth earpiece. She dialed the head of PR for the Clarke family.

A man answered on the second ring.

"Put Cristofer on the phone right now," Eleanor demanded.

"Ms. Fletcher," the PR director said, his tone dripping with corporate arrogance. "Mr. Clarke is currently handling private matters. I have no information for you."

The cold, calculated old-money response made Eleanor's blood boil.

"Listen to me, you corporate lapdog," Eleanor spat. "If you don't patch me through-"

He hung up.

Eleanor let out a scream of pure rage. She swerved into the next lane, the tires hydroplaning on the wet asphalt. She barely missed the back of a FedEx truck. She jerked the wheel hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She couldn't crash. She was the only person Corrine had right now.

The glowing red cross of the private hospital appeared through the rain. Eleanor slammed on the brakes. The sports car fishtailed and skidded to a halt directly in the emergency ambulance bay.

She didn't even shut the door. She grabbed her bag and ran inside. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles.

A security guard stepped in front of her. "Ma'am, you can't park there-"

Eleanor shoved him hard in the chest. "Where is Corrine Ratcliff?!"

Nurse Sharon heard the yelling. She rushed out from behind the desk. She instantly recognized the socialite who frequently graced the pages of Vogue.

Sharon grabbed Eleanor's arm and pulled her into a quiet corner of the waiting area.

"Are you Eleanor?" Sharon asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Yes. Where is she?"

"She's in surgery," Sharon said, her eyes filled with pity. "It's bad. She had a massive hemorrhage. They might have to remove her uterus to stop the bleeding."

The words hit Eleanor like a physical punch to the gut. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the collar of Sharon's scrubs to keep herself standing.

Her eyes filled with hot tears.

"Bring me the paperwork," Eleanor growled, her voice trembling with absolute fury. "Bring me every liability waiver you have. I will sign them all."

Eleanor snatched the thick stack of papers from Sharon's hands.

She didn't read a single line of the medical jargon. She flipped straight to the back pages and aggressively scribbled her signature on every single proxy line.

She slammed the clipboard down on the reception desk.

"Listen to me," Eleanor pointed a shaking finger at the hospital administrator standing behind the counter. "If Corrine Ratcliff dies in that room, the Fletcher family lawyers will bankrupt this hospital by morning. Do your jobs."

Two agonizing hours passed.

Eleanor paced the hallway. Finally, the red light above the operating room doors clicked off.

The automatic doors slid open. Dr. Finch walked out. His blue scrubs were covered in massive, dark red bloodstains. He pulled his surgical cap off, looking exhausted.

Eleanor sprang from the plastic waiting chair. She ran over and grabbed his forearm.

"Is she alive?" Eleanor demanded.

Dr. Finch let out a heavy breath. "She delivered twins. A boy and a girl. The boy's weight is barely acceptable, but he's stable."

Eleanor's shoulders dropped. A small, relieved smile touched her lips.

But Dr. Finch's expression didn't change. His jaw tightened.

"The girl suffered severe hypoxia in the womb," he said, his voice grim. "Her lungs are severely underdeveloped. She's in critical condition. We are moving her to the NICU immediately."

Before Eleanor could process the words, the OR doors opened again. Two nurses ran out, pushing a clear plastic incubator.

Eleanor rushed to the glass. Inside the box lay a baby girl. She was the size of Eleanor's hand. Her skin was a terrifying shade of purple. A thick tube was shoved down her tiny throat. Her chest barely moved.

Eleanor's chest seized. It felt like a giant hand was crushing her heart.

She watched through blurred, tear-filled eyes as the nurses pushed the incubator down the hall, rushing toward the intensive care wing.

Eleanor wiped her face and turned back to Dr. Finch. "And Corrine? Can I see her?"

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly. "Corrine suffered uterine atony after the delivery. She lost a catastrophic amount of blood."

Eleanor stopped breathing.

"We managed to save her uterus," Dr. Finch continued. "But the blood loss sent her into deep hemorrhagic shock. She is in the ICU. We are monitoring her for multiple organ failure. It's hour by hour right now."

Eleanor's legs gave out. She slid down the cold, tiled wall until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her hands. A violent sob tore through her chest.

Ding.

A sharp notification sound came from her pocket.

Eleanor pulled out her phone with trembling hands. It was an alert from her special Twitter follows. Cristofer's official PR team had just released a joint statement.

Eleanor stared at the screen. The text was perfectly polished.

Mr. Cristofer Clarke and Ms. Arielle Orozco are longtime friends. They were simply enjoying a beautiful weekend together at a private gathering. We ask the media to stop over-analyzing the situation.

Below the text was a high-quality photo of Cristofer and Arielle clinking champagne glasses in the sun. They were smiling.

Eleanor looked at the words enjoying a beautiful weekend. Then she looked down the hall at the flashing red lights of the ICU, where Corrine was bleeding to death.

A wave of pure, blinding rage shot straight to her brain.

Eleanor stood up. She gripped her phone tightly. She turned and hurled it as hard as she could at a massive, antique porcelain vase sitting in the corner of the lobby.

CRASH!

The vase exploded. Thousands of sharp ceramic shards flew across the floor.

The nurses jumped. The security guards reached for their radios.

Eleanor didn't care. She pointed at the broken pieces on the floor.

"Cristofer Clarke," she whispered to the empty air, her teeth grinding together. "I am going to make you pay for this."

She marched over to the nurses' station. She pulled a solid metal American Express Black Card from her wallet and slapped it on the counter.

"Move Corrine to the highest security VIP penthouse suite on the top floor. Now," Eleanor ordered.

The nurse blinked, intimidated. "Yes, ma'am."

"And tell your security chief," Eleanor leaned over the counter, her eyes completely dead, "if anyone with the last name Clarke steps foot on that floor, I will have them arrested for trespassing."

Once the transfer was initiated, Eleanor walked down to the NICU. She stood outside the large glass window, staring at the tiny, purple baby fighting for every breath.

She pulled a burner phone from her bag. She dialed the encrypted number of her family's private investigator.

He answered immediately.

"I need you to dig into that Hamptons villa," Eleanor said, her voice as sharp as a razor. "Find out exactly what happened last night. I want every piece of dirt you can find on Arielle Orozco."

She hung up the phone. The rain outside the hospital window began to slow, but Eleanor knew the real storm was just beginning.