Vivienne's POV
The bullet holes in the window looked like three black stars.
I traced them with my eyes for the hundredth time today, counting each one like prayer beads. One. Two. Three. Three chances to die. Three reasons I should be in a coffin instead of this wheelchair.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Ms. Ashford, are you listening?
Agent Marks stood in front of me, blocking my view of the window. She was tall and serious, with tired eyes that had seen too many bad things. Just like mine now.
The shooter is dead, she said. Her voice was flat, like she was reading a grocery list instead of telling me about murder. We found his body two days ago in a warehouse in Brooklyn. Single gunshot to the head. Professional execution.
My stomach twisted. So someone killed him before he could talk.
Yes. Agent Marks pulled a chair close to my wheelchair. Too close. I could smell her coffee breath. Which means whoever ordered the hit on you is still out there. And they're cleaning up loose ends.
The hospital room suddenly felt smaller. The machines beeping around me sounded louder. My heart monitor started racing, showing everyone how scared I was.
Three weeks ago, I was Vivienne Ashford, Manhattan princess, engaged to the perfect man, living the perfect life. Three weeks ago, I thought I was safe.
Then the bullets came through the window.
I remembered the sound, like firecrackers, but sharper. Louder. My driver, Michael, slumping forward against the steering wheel. Blood everywhere. My bodyguard, Thomas, shouting at me to get down. The second shot hitting him. The third shot that should have killed me, would have killed me, except I'd dropped my phone and bent down to grab it at exactly the right second.
Luck. Pure stupid luck kept me alive.
We don't know who ordered the hit, Agent Marks continued. The shooter's phone was wiped clean. His bank accounts show a deposit of two hundred thousand dollars three days before the attack, but it's untraceable. Offshore accounts, shell companies. Whoever paid him knew how to hide their tracks.
So I'm still a target. My voice came out small and broken. I hated how weak I sounded.
Most likely, yes.
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking so badly I had to grip the wheelchair arms to make them stop. My shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed it. My collarbone ached from the surgical repair. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fear that lived in my chest now, heavy and cold.
What do I do? I whispered.
Agent Marks leaned forward. You let me assign you protection. The best close-protection specialist on the East Coast. He's former military, highly trained, completely trustworthy.
A bodyguard. The word tasted bitter. Thomas had been my bodyguard. Thomas was in intensive care three floors down, still unconscious, machines breathing for him.
Not just a bodyguard. Someone who can keep you alive while we figure out who wants you dead and why.
And if you never figure it out?
Agent Marks didn't answer right away. That told me everything.
The door opened and a nurse came in, all fake smiles and cheerful energy. Time for your medication, sweetheart!
I took the pills without arguing. They were supposed to help with pain and anxiety. They didn't work. Nothing worked except counting the bullet holes and wondering when the next ones would come.
After the nurse left, Agent Marks stood up. I'll send him tomorrow morning. His name is Damian Cross. Follow his instructions, Ms. Ashford. He's very good at his job.
Thomas was good at his job too. My voice cracked. He's been in a coma for three weeks.
I know. For the first time, Agent Marks's voice softened. I'm sorry about your driver and your bodyguard. But if you want to survive, you need to trust me. Let Damian protect you.
She left before I could argue.
I sat alone in the hospital room, surrounded by flowers I didn't want from people who didn't really care. Expensive arrangements with cards signed by family friends who'd probably forget my name in a month.
My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I grabbed it with my good hand, grateful for the distraction.
Thirty-two new messages. I scrolled through them, my chest getting tighter with each one.
Most were from reporters asking for interviews. Some were from people I barely knew, pretending to be worried. Three were from my stepmother Patricia's lawyers, with formal language about estate management and mental health evaluations.
Nothing from Julian, my fiancé. Not a single message in three weeks.
Nothing from Claire, my best friend since we were thirteen.
Everyone I loved had disappeared the moment the bullets started flying.
I was about to turn off my phone when a new message popped up. Unknown number.
My heart stopped.
The message was short. Only five words.
You survived. That was unfortunate.
Ice flooded my veins. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.
Before I could scream for the nurse, before I could call Agent Marks back, another message came through.
We'll fix our mistake soon.
Then a photo loaded on my screen.
It was me. Right now. In this hospital room. In this wheelchair.
Taken from outside my window.
Someone was watching me. Right this second.
I looked up at the window, at the dark New York City skyline beyond the glass, and saw nothing but my own terrified reflection staring back.
The phone buzzed one more time.
Sleep well, Vivienne. We'll see you very soon.