Make Him Pay: My Ultimate Revenge

Sharon stared at the bloody phone on the floor.

She knelt down and picked it up. The screen was still unlocked, displaying the call log. Dozens of red missed calls to 'Cristofer' filled the screen. Sharon looked at the closed doors of the OR. She thought about the pale, bleeding woman who had to fight for her own right to surgery because her billionaire husband wouldn't pick up the phone. A tight knot of anger formed in Sharon's chest.

She wiped the blood off the screen with her thumb. She swiped out of the call log and opened the text messages. She tapped on the first name pinned at the top of Corrine's emergency contact list: Eleanor. Sharon rapidly typed out a message with shaking fingers, detailing the absolute nightmare unfolding in the surgical wing, and pressed send.

Ten miles away, on the Upper East Side, the bass from the nightclub speakers vibrated through the leather VIP booths.

Eleanor Fletcher sat back against the cushions. She swirled the martini in her glass, completely bored.

Suddenly, the phone inside her limited-edition Birkin bag started vibrating frantically against the leather.

She groaned in annoyance. She set the glass down on the glass coffee table and pulled out her phone.

The moment her eyes focused on the screen, the breath left her lungs.

Hospital... bleeding... save her babies.

The broken words stabbed into Eleanor's eyes. The blood drained from her face. Her skin turned ice cold.

She shot up from the sofa. Her knee slammed into the edge of the glass table. A tower of champagne flutes tipped over. Glass shattered everywhere. Champagne soaked into the expensive rug.

A Wall Street trust-fund kid sitting next to her reached out to grab her arm. "Whoa, babe, what's the rush-"

"Get the fuck off me!" Eleanor roared.

The guy flinched, pulling his hand back as if he'd been burned.

Eleanor didn't look back. She sprinted out of the club in her five-inch Louboutin heels. She shoved past the bouncers and burst into the freezing rain.

She unlocked her phone and dialed Cristofer's number while running toward her Aston Martin.

The mechanical Verizon voice answered. The subscriber you have dialed is not available.

"You piece of shit," Eleanor hissed. She threw her phone onto the passenger seat.

She ripped the car door open, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed her foot on the brake. She twisted the key. The V12 engine roared like a wild animal. The sports car shot out into the wet Manhattan streets.

At a red light on Fifth Avenue, Eleanor's hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached.

She glanced at the digital dashboard screen. A Twitter notification popped up. It was the top trending topic. A bright red siren emoji sat next to the hashtag: CristoferClarke & ArielleOrozco Late Night Pool Party.

Eleanor's heart stopped. She leaned forward and tapped the screen.

A set of high-definition paparazzi photos from TMZ loaded instantly.

There was Cristofer. His dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Hollywood's top actress, Arielle Orozco, had her arms wrapped intimately around his bicep. They were standing by a glowing blue pool at a private villa in the Hamptons.

She swiped to the next image. It was a GIF. Arielle laughed, tilting her head back to rest on Cristofer's shoulder. They walked together into the dark house.

Eleanor's entire body started to shake. Her perfectly manicured acrylic nails dug so deep into the steering wheel they left permanent scratches in the leather.

"Corrine is bleeding out," Eleanor screamed at the empty car, her throat burning. "And you are fucking that manipulative bitch!"

The light turned green. Eleanor slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

The Aston Martin ignored the speed limit, tearing through the rain. She put in her Bluetooth earpiece. She dialed the head of PR for the Clarke family.

A man answered on the second ring.

"Put Cristofer on the phone right now," Eleanor demanded.

"Ms. Fletcher," the PR director said, his tone dripping with corporate arrogance. "Mr. Clarke is currently handling private matters. I have no information for you."

The cold, calculated old-money response made Eleanor's blood boil.

"Listen to me, you corporate lapdog," Eleanor spat. "If you don't patch me through-"

He hung up.

Eleanor let out a scream of pure rage. She swerved into the next lane, the tires hydroplaning on the wet asphalt. She barely missed the back of a FedEx truck. She jerked the wheel hard, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She couldn't crash. She was the only person Corrine had right now.

The glowing red cross of the private hospital appeared through the rain. Eleanor slammed on the brakes. The sports car fishtailed and skidded to a halt directly in the emergency ambulance bay.

She didn't even shut the door. She grabbed her bag and ran inside. Her heels clicked sharply against the tiles.

A security guard stepped in front of her. "Ma'am, you can't park there-"

Eleanor shoved him hard in the chest. "Where is Corrine Ratcliff?!"

Nurse Sharon heard the yelling. She rushed out from behind the desk. She instantly recognized the socialite who frequently graced the pages of Vogue.

Sharon grabbed Eleanor's arm and pulled her into a quiet corner of the waiting area.

"Are you Eleanor?" Sharon asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Yes. Where is she?"

"She's in surgery," Sharon said, her eyes filled with pity. "It's bad. She had a massive hemorrhage. They might have to remove her uterus to stop the bleeding."

The words hit Eleanor like a physical punch to the gut. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the collar of Sharon's scrubs to keep herself standing.

Her eyes filled with hot tears.

"Bring me the paperwork," Eleanor growled, her voice trembling with absolute fury. "Bring me every liability waiver you have. I will sign them all."