Part 2Eight Hundred Dollars An Hour

At six the next morning, Conrad left the city to drive Alyssa back to her hometown.

I took the subway during peak rush hour, crushed against the stainless steel poles of the commuter train, clutching my canvas work bag.

At two in the afternoon, my phone buzzed violently against the laminate desk. It was the hospital.

"Ms. Diaz? Your mother has suffered acute cardiac decompensation. She's in the emergency resuscitation bay right now."

By the time I stumbled through the automatic doors of the emergency wing, the red light above the trauma room was glowing like an open wound.

A triage nurse hurried over, pressing my mother’s phone into my shaking hands.

"She was clutching this when the paramedics brought her in," the nurse said gently. "The screen was still unlocked. You might want to take a look."

The display was frozen on an open messaging thread between my mother and Alyssa.

The image was a high-resolution photograph taken in a private dining room draped in traditional celebratory crimson. Alyssa and Conrad sat side by side, each sporting a silk boutonniere. On the mahogany table before them were ceremonial wedding favors, vintage wine, and red gift envelopes typically presented by elders during a formal betrothal dinner.

Conrad’s arm was casually draped over the back of Alyssa’s chair. Alyssa was leaning into his shoulder, her hand resting over his forearm, smiling into the lens with the radiant, shy triumph of a newly promised bride.

Below the photo, Alyssa had typed:

"Mrs. Diaz, please don't get the wrong idea! My parents had no idea Mr. Hale was married; they assumed he was the serious partner I brought home. Mr. Hale only agreed to sit for the picture so my elderly parents wouldn't lose face in front of our extended family."

My mother’s desperate replies followed in rapid succession:

"Alyssa, you're a grown woman. You know what boundaries look like."

"Put Conrad on the phone. I need to speak with him right now."

Alyssa never replied.

In the call history, my mother had dialed Conrad twelve times in a row. Not a single call had been answered.

The nurse cast a sorrowful, indignant glance at the screen. "Who does this to an elderly woman with known congestive heart failure?"

I clutched the cold glass of the phone, my throat locked so tight I couldn't draw a breath.

The resuscitation lasted an hour and twenty minutes.

When my mother finally opened her eyes in the step-down unit, her pale, spotted hand reached out immediately, gripping my fingers with surprising strength.

"June," she whispered through the oxygen cannula, using my childhood nickname. "What’s going on with you and Conrad?"

I carefully smoothed the rough hospital sheet over her frail shoulders.

"He's moved on, Mom," I said softly, the words coming out clear and unadorned. "I’m getting a divorce."

My mother froze. Her eyes searched my face for a long, agonizing moment before she began shaking her head against the pillow.

"No. You can't."

"Mom—"

"You haven't worked in five years, June. Your degree is from a state college. If you leave him, how will you survive in this city? Rent alone will drown you." Her breathing grew labored, the cardiac monitor beside the bed beeping in an erratic, accelerated rhythm. "Besides... he hasn't crossed the line legally. Powerful men always have young, ambitious girls orbiting them. It’s just how the world works. Don't throw away your security over a photograph."

She spoke with frantic urgency, terrified for my future, her monitor flashing amber warnings.

Looking at her sunken cheeks and bloodless lips, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced my face into an obedient mask.

"Okay," I whispered, squeezing her fingers. "I won't leave him. I promise."

The tension in her chest dissipated. She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. "Good. Don't let pride ruin your life. Building a stable home is the only thing that matters."

I stepped out into the quiet of the hallway.

Conrad was standing at the far end of the corridor.

His charcoal suit was immaculately pressed, cut with razor-sharp precision. Flanking him were the hospital’s Chief Executive and the head of Cardiology. The department head was speaking in low, deferential tones, briefing him on my mother's prognosis.

Conrad simply nodded once. Within five minutes, orderlies were preparing to transfer my mother to the private penthouse suite on the top floor.

That was Conrad Hale. Vast wealth, absolute leverage. A single word from him could summon the most prestigious surgical team in the state—just as a single word from him could leave me begging at a billing window over eighteen thousand dollars.

Once the administrators dispersed, Conrad walked toward me, his leather oxfords clicking rhythmically against the linoleum.

"I heard what you told your mother in there," he said evenly. "Since you have no intention of divorcing me, stop using this ridiculous idea of 'being even' to push my buttons."

I glanced down at my watch. Eleven-twenty.

"Step aside, please," I said. "I have to get back to the office."

Conrad’s brow pinched. "Your mother was just resuscitated, and your priority is an entry-level desk job?"

I met his gaze, my eyes completely dry. "If I don't punch in for the afternoon shift, I lose my perfect attendance bonus. That's sixty dollars."