Third person pov
Evelyn Whitmore had always thought of herself as a woman who could bend life to her will. Rules, threats, whispers of scandal none of it had ever unsettled her. People learned quickly that to cross her was to invite ruin. She carried her name like a shield, her reputation like a sword.
But that night, after leaving the hospital where Talia Moore lay half-alive, Evelyn felt something she hadn't in years. A slow, coiling unease pressed at her chest, heavier than the pearls at her throat. She hated it.
Her driver guided the car silently down the darkened streets. Through the window, Evelyn stared out at the city lights, her reflection faint against the glass. Talia's face kept flashing in her mind pale, bruised, a tube taped at her mouth. That sight alone would not have been enough to move her. She did not come to the hospital out of compassion; she came because someone, hidden behind a distorted voice, had forced her hand.
