For seventy-two agonizing hours, I didn't live in my apartment.
I didn't live at the office.
I lived in the hollow, sterile spaces of Manhattan General Hospital, trapped in a waking nightmare that felt like it was slowly chipping away at my soul.
Each passing moment was a devastating test of endurance.
The news of the shooting had broken across every major network in New York within hours, turning the hospital entrance below into a circus of reporters and flashing cameras.
Corporate executives, board members, and prominent figures from all over the city were flooded with panic, sending a relentless stream of elaborate flower arrangements, gifts, and empty prayers to the Torres offices. But hospital security had locked down the entire VIP wing—no one was allowed past the double doors except for immediate family.
Which, by the grace of Amelia, included me.
