Chapter 6
Story: The Stiletto Heel on Her Ribs Was Just the Beginning—He Walked In and the Camera Was Still Rolling
By seven that evening, the video had been viewed twelve million times.
Camille had given one interview to the Times and declined a dozen others. The hospital had issued a brief statement confirming that a patient had been "involved in an incident" on the maternity floor and that security footage had been reviewed with law enforcement. The statement mentioned no names, but the video did the work instead.
Eleanor's Instagram had gone silent. The post she'd made that morning—her claim of being the victim of a "vicious attack"—had been deleted, then reinstated, then deleted again. Her publicist released a statement that had been clearly written by lawyers, which began with "Out of respect for the ongoing police investigation—"
Richard Sterling, sitting in the chair beside his niece's bed, put his phone down and let out a low laugh.
"The DA's office called an hour ago. They're convening a grand jury on Tuesday. Assault, attempted involuntary manslaughter, and a few additional charges the consultant is still working on." He looked at Camille. "You won't need to testify in person if you don't want to. The recordings are more than sufficient."
"They can have whatever they need." Camille shifted, wincing as her ribs protested. "Did they mention what she's been doing since last night?"
"You'll enjoy this." Richard leaned back. "She called her brother. The one who's a lawyer in Connecticut. He advised her to stay offline and say nothing. She responded by posting to her finsta—which she thought was private—and calling him a coward. Someone screenshotted it, and it's now online."
Camille closed her eyes. "She's spiraling."
"She's realizing that everything she built was built on a mask, and the mask just dissolved." Richard's voice was satisfied. "The whole city is watching. Her friends are distancing themselves. Her brand partnerships are being 'paused.' The fashion house she was supposed to headline at Fashion Week announced they're 'reconsidering their association' within the same hour the video went viral."
"Good."
"Good isn't the word I'd use. I'd use 'exactly what she deserves.'" Richard looked at his phone again. "Your husband is waiting in the hallway. He's been there for two hours. He asked me to let him know when I finished."
Marcus had been staying with her, leaving only for short stretches, and Camille had begun to let herself believe that his hesitation had been a moment of weakness, not a sign of a deeper flaw.
She looked at Richard. "Send him in."
Marcus entered a minute later, his jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He looked exhausted in a way that made her want to tell him to go home, but she knew he wouldn't.
"Hey." He crossed to her bed and sat down in the chair beside it. "I did what you asked. I gave a statement to the Times. It's already up."
He handed her his phone, and she read it.
"I want to be absolutely clear: my wife did nothing wrong last night. Eleanor Prescott came to my wife's private suite uninvited and attacked her without provocation. I came through the door and found Eleanor standing over my wife, who was bleeding on the floor. My first instinct was to protect my wife, and I will never forgive myself for the hesitation I showed. But I am telling you now, with the full weight of what I saw: Eleanor Prescott attacked my wife and my unborn child. She is a liar and a coward, and she has forfeited any claim to my trust, my friendship, or my respect."
The words were raw, unfiltered. She could hear the guilt in every sentence.
"Marcus." She lowered the phone. "You didn't need to put the part about the hesitation."
"I did." His voice was firm but quiet. "I need to be honest about what I did and didn't do. I failed you for one second, and I'm going to carry that with me for the rest of my life. But I'm not going to hide from it, because hiding from it means giving Eleanor something to use against me later."
Camille's eyes stung. She reached for his hand, and he took it.
"Come sit with me," she said. "I need a little company."
He noticed the space beside her on the bed and nodded, carefully easing onto the mattress without jostling her. His arm went around her, pulling her close, and she let herself rest against him, her head settling into the curve of his shoulder.
The baby's heartbeat filled the room, steady and strong.
"What happens now?" she asked.
Marcus was quiet for a moment. "The grand jury will decide. If they indict, she'll face trial. The video will be the centerpiece of the prosecution's case, and no lawyer in the world is going to be able to argue with it."
"And after?"
"After..." He kissed the top of her head. "We go home. We have our baby. We build the life we were building before she tried to break it."
"I don't know if I can just move past it." Camille's voice was small. "I keep seeing her face, hearing her voice. I keep feeling that heel connect with my ribs."
"I know." His arms tightened around her. "But you don't have to move past it tonight. You just have to be here. You and the baby. I'll be right here too."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Evidence for the charges climbed through the evening. Richard's staff had pulled three years of Eleanor's communications with Marcus, showing a pattern of escalating fixation. They'd found phone records placing her at the hospital from midnight to two a.m., and credited a receipt from a coffee shop across the street. They'd found her old volunteer badge, still active in the system.
It wasn't a case built on a single night. It was a case built on months of obsession that had ended in violence.
When a nurse came in to check Camille's vitals, she found the patient asleep against her husband's shoulder, and Marcus's hand resting protectively over the baby's curve. The nurse adjusted the blanket, dimmed the lights, and slipped out quietly.
The video played on in the world outside, twelve million views and climbing. Eleanor's empire dissolved in real time. The Dalhousie fashion house dropped her from the runway. The pageant charity she chaired announced her resignation "by mutual agreement." A junior senator's office, which had been considering her for a fundraising role, quietly closed the file.
Camille didn't see any of it. She was asleep, her hand pressed against the baby's fluttering movements, her body healing from the assault.
The baby kicked once, twice, and then settled into sleep.
The heartbeat monitor beeped its steady rhythm, and for a long, peaceful stretch, the room was quiet except for the sound of a life stubbornly refusing to end.
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