Make Him Pay: My Ultimate Revenge

"Push the gurney! Move!"

The deafening wail of the ambulance siren sliced through the thunderstorm over Manhattan. The heavy rear doors of the vehicle were kicked open. Rain lashed down in thick, freezing sheets.

The paramedics yanked the stretcher out. The rubber wheels hit the flooded asphalt, spraying dirty water across the emergency room entrance.

Corrine Ratcliff curled into a tight ball on the narrow mattress. Her hands gripped her massive, swollen belly. The thin white hospital gown was already soaked through. Blood mixed with amniotic fluid, dripping steadily onto the metal frame of the gurney.

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

Nurse Sharon Mills sprinted out of the sliding glass doors. She grabbed the front of the gurney.

"I've got her! Clear the hallway!" Sharon screamed.

The wheels screeched against the polished linoleum floor of the ER lobby. Corrine stared up. The harsh, blinding white fluorescent lights on the ceiling flashed past her eyes in a rapid, dizzying blur. Her stomach cramped so hard she thought her spine would snap in half.

Dr. Alistair Finch, the hospital's top obstetrician, power-walked toward them. His face was grim. He snatched the chart from the paramedic.

Another contraction hit. It felt like a serrated knife dragging through Corrine's pelvis.

A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat. Her fingers clamped around the cold metal side-rails of the gurney. She squeezed until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

Dr. Finch snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. He pressed his hands firmly against her lower abdomen. His thick eyebrows instantly pulled together into a hard knot.

"Breech," Dr. Finch barked. "Both of them. The twins are completely misaligned."

Before anyone could speak, the fetal heart monitor attached to Corrine's stomach let out a piercing, high-pitched alarm. The red light flashed frantically.

"Fetal distress!" Sharon yelled, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. "Baby A's heart rate is plummeting. It's dropping fast!"

"Activate the OB Rapid Response Team! Stat C-section, now!" Sharon shouted down the hall.

Dr. Finch leaned over the gurney. His face was inches from Corrine's.

"Listen to me," Dr. Finch said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "If I don't cut you open right this second, you and both of these babies are going to die. Do you understand?"

Cold sweat drenched Corrine's hair, pasting it to her forehead. The pain was blinding, tearing her body apart from the inside out. She nodded frantically.

Sharon shoved a thick stack of papers onto Corrine's chest.

"Consent forms," Sharon said, her voice shaking. "We need a family member or a legal medical proxy to sign this right now. We can't operate without it."

Family.

The word made Corrine's chest cave in. Her brain went completely blank. Her trembling hand instinctively reached for the pillow next to her head. Her fingers brushed against her phone. It was slick with her own sweat.

The screen lit up. The wallpaper was a wedding photo of her and her husband, Cristofer Clarke. They were standing apart. He wasn't even looking at her. The image made her stomach twist with nausea.

Her thumb slipped twice on the glass before she managed to unlock it. She dialed the private line. The line Cristofer swore was open for her twenty-four hours a day.

The phone pressed against her ear.

Ring.

Ring.

The cold, monotonous sound hammered against Corrine's fracturing nerves.

Another wave of agony crashed over her. Her back arched off the mattress. The phone slipped from her sweaty palm and slammed hard against her chest.

"Corrine! The heart rate is still dropping!" Sharon urged, grabbing her shoulder. "The anesthesiologist is waiting. We are out of time!"

Corrine bit down on her lip again. Fresh blood pooled in her mouth. She grabbed the phone and hit redial.

The automated system clicked.

"You have reached the voicemail of Cristofer Clarke."

She squeezed her eyes shut. She forced air into her burning lungs.

"Cris," she sobbed into the speaker, her voice cracking. "Please. Save our babies. Please..."

"One more minute," Dr. Finch warned, his voice turning harsh. "One more minute and the lack of oxygen will cause permanent brain damage to the infants."

A hot tear slid down Corrine's pale cheek. The reality hit her like a physical blow to the face. The heir to the Clarke media empire was not coming. He was not going to save her tonight.

A sickening, heavy drop pulled at her pelvis. More warm blood gushed between her legs. The edges of her vision started to turn black.

Sharon reached for Corrine's designer handbag. "I'm going to find your contacts. We have to call the Clarke family."

"No!" Corrine gasped.

She lunged forward and grabbed Sharon's wrist. Her nails dug into the nurse's skin.

She knew exactly what those old-money aristocrats thought of her. She was just an orphan. A commoner. They would rather watch her bleed out on this table than lift a finger to help her.

She bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain forced her fading consciousness back into focus. She propped herself up on her elbows.

She stared dead into Dr. Finch's eyes.

"I am conscious and I am my own legal proxy!" Corrine gasped, her voice surprisingly fierce despite the agony. "The law states I can sign for myself. If my babies die because you waited for a man who isn't coming, I will make sure you lose your medical license and this hospital goes bankrupt! Give me the pen."

Dr. Finch hesitated. The sheer desperation and legal threat in her eyes caught him off guard. But the red alarm on the monitor shrieked louder. He had no choice.

Sharon thrust a black pen into her hand.

Corrine pressed the tip to the paper. Her hand shook violently. She dragged the ink across the signature line, leaving a jagged, distorted version of her name.

The moment the pen lifted, a massive wave of dark, suffocating heaviness crashed over her. Her arms gave out. She collapsed back onto the mattress.

"Go! Go! Go!" Dr. Finch yelled.

The gurney was shoved violently through the double doors of the operating room.

Outside in the hallway, the heavy doors swung shut with a loud thud. Sharon stood there, catching her breath. She looked down at the floor.

Corrine's phone lay on the tiles. The screen was still glowing. A smear of fresh blood covered the glass.