To Wait for the Next Ambulance
A week before my wedding to Alistair Sterling, I was at the Seattle waterfront community center I’d designed when I was crushed in an accident—one deliberately orchestrated by his late wife's sister, Bianca Thorne.
She used a plasma cutter to slice through a critical support on the scaffolding. The falling steel rebar pierced my abdomen.
When Alistair and the paramedics arrived, I was trapped under the twisted metal, bleeding out.
But he ran straight past me to Bianca, who was perfectly fine, merely putting on a show of trembling.
He held her tightly as she shivered in his arms, safe and sound.
A paramedic shouted anxiously, "Mr. Sterling, your fiancée is in critical condition! We have to get her into surgery immediately!"
But Alistair blocked the stretcher, his gaze sweeping over me, frigid and dismissive. "It was just an accident. Bianca is terrified—she's the priority. Get her a psych evaluation first."
As they prepared to leave me behind, I used my last ounce of strength to grab his pant leg.
He frowned, prying my weakening fingers away. "Bianca didn't mean it; she just panicked. Scarlett, you're the professional here. You should know where the priority lies."
Then, using my blood-soaked fingerprint, he forcefully unlocked my work tablet.
He used it to delete the final safety log, erasing all evidence of Bianca's unauthorized entry onto the site.
"The next team of paramedics will be here soon. Hang in there."