The Jilted Heiress And Her Ruthless Savior

The harsh sound of clay scraping against stone ripped through the quiet path. The noise made the hair on the back of Elinor's neck stand up.

Her survival instinct kicked in. She snapped her head back and looked up.

On the third-floor open balcony of the Art History building, a massive terracotta planter was falling.

The dark shadow of the pot expanded over her face. Gravity pulled it down at a terrifying speed.

Elinor's brain did not have time to process the danger. Her muscles reacted first. She threw her entire body to the right, diving toward the grass.

A deafening crash exploded right next to her ear. The heavy pot slammed into the concrete walkway where she had just been standing.

The terracotta shattered into a hundred pieces. Black potting soil and jagged shards of clay exploded outward like shrapnel.

A blinding, tearing pain ripped through Elinor's left forearm.

A razor-sharp piece of clay sliced right through the fabric of her trench coat. It dug deep into her flesh.

She hit the grass hard. She gasped for air. Her right hand immediately clamped down over her left arm.

Hot, wet blood poured out of the cut. It soaked through her fingers and dripped onto the green grass. The bright red color made her stomach turn.

Elinor gritted her teeth. The pain burned like fire. She pushed herself up on her right elbow. She forced her head up to look at the third-floor balcony.

Behind the carved stone railing, a flash of blonde hair and a bright pink cardigan moved quickly. The person ducked back into the shadows and disappeared.

Elinor's eyes turned to ice. Her jaw locked. She knew that pink cardigan. It was Carrie Hutchinson.

Two students walking nearby heard the explosion. They ran over, their faces pale with shock.

A boy with black glasses saw the blood pouring down Elinor's arm. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He started dialing campus security.

"Stop," Elinor commanded. Her voice shook from the pain, but the tone was absolute.

She forced her brain to work. There were no cameras on this side of the building. There were no witnesses. She only saw a piece of clothing. Security would write it off as an accident.

She needed medical documentation first. Then she would find proof to destroy Carrie.

Elinor unzipped her bag with her bloody right hand. She pulled out a thick pack of tissues. She pressed the entire stack against the open wound.

The white paper turned dark red instantly. The students tried to grab her arms to help her up. She shoved them away. She forced herself to stand.

She walked in her heels. Every step sent a shockwave of pain up her arm, but she kept her back perfectly straight. She walked toward the Student Health Center.

Ten minutes later, Elinor pushed open the glass doors of the clinic.

The receptionist at the front desk saw her pale face and the blood dripping onto the floor. The woman slammed her hand on the emergency call button.

Registered Nurse Sharon Mills ran out from the back. She grabbed Elinor's good arm and rushed her into Treatment Room One.

Elinor sat on the exam table. The crinkly paper beneath her ripped. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead.

Sharon took a pair of medical scissors and cut the bloody sleeve off the coat. The nurse sucked in a breath. The cut was deep.

Sharon grabbed a bottle of saline. She squeezed the liquid directly into the wound. The violent stinging pain made Elinor's fingers dig into the metal edge of the bed.

"You need at least five stitches," Sharon said. She prepared a needle of local anesthetic. "You cannot use this arm for anything strenuous."

Elinor stared at the curved suture needle. Her stomach twisted. Tomorrow night was the Founder's Day Gala. She was supposed to play a piano solo. Her eyes darkened with frustration.