Chapter 4: The Walk of Shame
The St. Jude Charity Gala was the social event of the season. Downstairs in the grand ballroom, five hundred of the city’s wealthiest and most influential elite were sipping champagne, completely unaware of the blood on the marble floors three stories above them.
That was until the elevator doors dinged open in the main lobby.
Isabella Rossi, dressed in a custom $15,000 crimson Valentino gown, was forcefully escorted out of the elevator by two uniformed police officers. Her hands were cuffed securely behind her back. Her immaculate blowout was ruined, strands of dark hair plastered to her tear-stained face.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. The gala was just letting out. The lobby was packed with socialites, business moguls, and—most devastatingly—the press.
A local society reporter was the first to spot her. “Is that… Isabella Rossi?”
The whisper ripped through the lobby like a shockwave. Conversations stopped dead. The clinking of glasses ceased. Five hundred pairs of eyes turned toward the elevator bank.
Isabella froze. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. “Please,” she hissed to the officer holding her arm. “Please, take me out the back. Don’t do this to me. I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars right now, just take me through the service exit!”
“Keep walking, ma'am,” the officer replied loudly, completely unfazed by the bribe.
Suddenly, a flash went off. Then another. And another.
The paparazzi, hired to take glamorous photos of the attendees, surged forward like sharks smelling blood in the water.
“Isabella! Over here!”
“Are you being arrested? What happened upstairs?”
“Where is Marcus Thorne? Where is Khloe?”
Isabella ducked her head, trying to hide her face behind her shoulder, but it was impossible. The bright flashes of the cameras illuminated her humiliation for the world to see.
Standing near the coat check, a group of women who Isabella usually gossiped with stood in stunned silence.
“I heard she stabbed someone,” one woman whispered loudly enough for Isabella to hear.
“I heard she tried to push Khloe Thorne down a flight of stairs,” another replied, raising her phone to record a video.
Within seconds, the hashtag #RossiArrest was trending on Twitter. A grainy video of Isabella being shoved into the back of a squad car in her blood-red gown hit Facebook, amassing a hundred thousand views in under ten minutes. The caption read: Billionaire’s Mistress Arrested for Attempted Murder.
While Isabella’s reputation was being publicly executed on the sidewalk, Marcus Thorne was pacing outside the sterile doors of Operating Room 4.
He had taken off his tuxedo jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, heavily stained with Khloe’s blood. He looked like a ghost. He felt like one, too.
Every time the red "IN USE" light above the OR doors flickered, Marcus’s heart stopped. He replayed the security footage in his mind on an endless, torturous loop. He saw Isabella lunging. He saw the kick. But worst of all, he saw Khloe curling into a ball, trying to protect their child, completely alone.
“You’re just being paranoid, Khloe. Isabella is just a friend of the family. Stop acting so insecure.”
His own words echoed in his head, making him physically nauseous. He had gaslit his own wife to protect a woman who had just tried to murder their unborn child.
Two hours passed. Two hours of agonizing, suffocating silence.
Finally, the OR doors pushed open. Dr. Richard Vance walked out. He was still wearing his surgical scrubs, his face pale and exhausted. He pulled off his surgical cap and looked at Marcus.
Marcus stopped pacing. His legs suddenly felt like lead. He couldn't speak. He couldn't ask the question. He was terrified of the answer.
Richard let out a long, heavy breath. “She’s alive, Marcus.”
Marcus collapsed into one of the hard plastic waiting room chairs, burying his face in his bloodstained hands. A ragged sob tore from his throat.
“The baby?” Marcus asked, his voice cracking.
“It was close. Too close,” Richard said coldly, leaning against the wall. “The trauma caused a partial placental abruption. We managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize them both. But Khloe is incredibly weak, and the baby is now highly at risk. She has to remain on strict bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. One spike in her blood pressure, one ounce of stress, and she will lose this child. Do you understand me?”
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“I understand,” Marcus whispered. “Can I see her?”
Richard looked down at the billionaire, his eyes devoid of any warmth. “You can go in. But I suggest you prepare yourself, Marcus. She’s awake. And she has some things she wants to say to you.”
