It was nearly half an hour later when the paramedic finally stood up, brushing his hands off on his pants with a reassuring smile. “Good news… your wrist isn’t broken,” he said, glancing at Hank. “But it’s probably a pretty bad sprain. You’ll want to get it checked by your primary doctor as soon as possible.”

  Hank winced as he flexed his fingers. “That might be a problem… I’m from Seattle, and I’m supposed to head back tomorrow.”

  The paramedic gave him a sympathetic look. “That’s a long way to go with a sprained wrist. Flying?”

  Hank shook his head. “Driving.”

  The paramedic raised an eyebrow. “That’s even worse. You’ll need rest, and that wrist needs to be wrapped. Driving for hours won’t do it any favors.”

  Hank sighed, clearly frustrated. “I only have the hotel for one more night. I can’t afford to extend the stay. I’ve got deadlines, clients, work waiting for me back home. I can’t just sit here.”

  Understanding the stubborn resolve behind Hank’s voice, the paramedic pulled a small prescription bottle from his bag and held it out. “I’m not saying you have to stay, but at least take these. They’re not heavy-duty, but they’ll manage the pain for a while. Take one before you head out tomorrow, and don’t overdo it.”

  Hank nodded, accepting the bottle. He looked down at his wrist… already turning a deep shade of purple, and frowned. The adrenaline was fading, and now the dull throb of pain was setting in.

  The police officer, who had been standing nearby finishing up his report, stepped forward. “We’ve got your statement and contact info, Mr. Avery. That’s all we need for now, but we’ll be in touch if anything else comes up. You really did a good thing today.”

  Hank nodded, his expression tired but grateful. “Just glad the kid’s okay.”

  Before he could say anything else, the girl’s mother stepped forward. “Where are you staying?” she asked, concern written all over her face.

  Hank hesitated for a moment, but before he could answer, Michelle stepped up beside him and gently placed a hand on his arm.

  “He’s staying at the Harbor View Hotel. Room 1212,” she said softly.

  The mother looked at her, then back at Hank. “Please… at least let me cover the cost of your camera. You saved my daughter’s life. It’s the least I can do.”

  Hank started to shake his head, but Michelle gave him a quiet look… one that said don’t argue. He sighed and nodded once. “We’ll figure it out,” he said.

  Michelle gently guided him away from the gathering crowd, her voice low as she said, “Come on, hero. Let’s get some ice on that wrist and find you some quiet.”

  Hank followed close behind Michelle, his mind still clouded by the rush of adrenaline and the weight of the moment. He didn’t even notice the broken camera he had left behind… the same camera that had captured thousands of memories, now cracked and lifeless on the sidewalk. It rested there like a fallen soldier, a quiet casualty in the chaos.

  A few paces away, the young girl’s mother… Constance, caught sight of the camera as she knelt beside her daughter. Her brows furrowed as she picked it up gently, inspecting the damage. The lens was shattered, the screen spider-webbed with fractures. Still, it wasn’t the broken equipment that held her attention… it was the man who had just risked everything for her child.

  She lifted her daughter into her arms, holding her close. The girl was still trembling slightly, her small fingers clutching at the fabric of her mother’s blouse. Constance kissed the top of her head, eyes fixed in the direction Hank had gone.

  “This man,” she whispered to herself, “he didn’t even hesitate.”

  Without another word, she turned and began walking purposefully toward the towering office building a few blocks away. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the weight of the camera in her hand and her daughter on her hip grounding her in the moment. There was something else weighing on her now… something long overdue.

  As the glass doors slid open and Constance stepped into the sleek, marble-tiled lobby of the Hanigan corporate building, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The gentle hum of conversation between employees hushed almost imperceptibly. The receptionist… poised and always alert, looked up from her desk, and her posture stiffened the moment she recognized her.

  “Mrs. Hanigan,” she greeted carefully, her voice edged with politeness but laced with caution. “Your husband is currently in a meeting.”

  Constance’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She offered no response, just a quiet nod as she adjusted her hold on the broken camera in one hand and her daughter in the other. The little girl clung to her mother’s blouse, still recovering from the frightening moment on the street. But for Constance, something deeper had been shaken.

  The flash of anger that surged in her chest wasn’t new… it was familiar now, like a phantom pain that never fully healed. This wasn’t the first time. Twice before, she had discovered her husband’s indiscretions. Two different women. Two different lies. And both times, she had buried her outrage beneath layers of composure, reminding herself of his role in her company, of the image they maintained.

  But this time felt different. This time, their daughter had nearly died. And the man who saved her… an absolute stranger, had shown more courage, more instinct, and more heart than her husband had in years.

  She knelt beside her daughter and gently brushed a lock of hair from her face.

  “Stay here with Jill for a minute, sweetheart,” she said softly.

  The little girl looked into her mother’s eyes, reading something quiet but fierce behind them. She nodded obediently and let go of her hand, stepping over to sit beside the receptionist, who gave a reassuring smile and offered her a small bottle of water from the counter.

  Constance stood and straightened her shoulders. Calm. Controlled. Radiant in her quiet fury.

  Without another word, she turned and made her way toward the elevator… toward the truth she was finally ready to confront.

  Constance Hanigan pressed the elevator button with an unshakable calm that belied the storm brewing behind her eyes. Her manicured finger lingered for half a beat longer than necessary, and the receptionist, watching closely, hesitated before reaching for the phone. She knew what was coming. Everyone in the building did.

  "Mrs. Hanigan…” she began, trying to stall.

  But Constance didn’t turn. Her focus was unyielding, her silence louder than any protest.

  The phone rang once. Twice. No answer. Of course not.

  Upstairs, Constance’s husband was likely too occupied to take a call.

  The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open with a smooth hiss. She stepped inside alone. The moment the polished chrome doors closed, a ripple of tension spread across the lobby like a crack through ice. Even Jill, the young receptionist, lowered her eyes, suddenly more interested in her keyboard than the inevitable scene about to unfold.

  Six floors up, the elevator opened to a wide expanse of glass-walled offices and open-floor cubicles. The quiet murmur of keyboards clicking and soft chatter faltered the second Constance stepped out.

  Her heels echoed sharply against the marble floors, a metronome of authority that snapped heads around one by one. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Junior associates ducked their gazes. A senior executive visibly swallowed his coffee too fast.

  Everyone knew who she was.

  Constance Hanigan. Founder. Owner. Powerhouse. And not a woman to be trifled with.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  They also knew exactly who her husband was… and what he was doing. It had been an open secret in the building for months. Rumors that spread in hushed tones behind hands, behind closed doors. But no one ever said a word to her.

  Until now, it had been assumed she either didn’t know or didn’t care.

  But the way she moved today… with poise sharp as a blade, told everyone the truth: she knew. And she cared. Very much.

  She strode past the rows of cubicles with a grace that demanded silence, her sharp blazer cutting through the muted palette of office wear like a streak of thundercloud through a pale sky. Her gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t flinch.

  And then she reached the office. His office.

  The heavy frosted-glass double doors loomed before her like the gates to a sanctuary defiled.

  Without a knock, without pause, she pushed them open with both hands.

  They slammed back against the walls with a jarring thud… and the office froze.

  Her husband stood behind his desk, shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled, red-faced and breathless. The young intern… no more than twenty, was bent over the desk, her blouse hastily tugged down, lipstick smudged across her cheek.

  Time stood still.

  “Constance,” he stammered, trying to straighten himself. “I was just… I mean, I was going to…”

  “Breaking in the new hire?” she finished for him, her voice low and cool.

  The girl squeaked, scrambling to pull her blouse together. The room had gone deathly silent, but Constance didn’t care who was watching. She turned her gaze toward the intern with a mixture of pity and disgust.

  “I hope the position comes with benefits,” she said flatly. “You’ll need them.”

  And with that, she walked into the office fully, the doors still wide open behind her, inviting the entire sixth floor to witness what came next.

  James Hanigan recoiled, each step backward a desperate attempt to create distance from the woman advancing on him. Constance. His wife of nine years. The woman whose eyes, usually warm and filled with a familiar affection, were now glacial, hard as flint. He could see in their depths that something fundamental had shifted, a line irrevocably crossed. She was done. Finished with the lies, the excuses, the endless cycle of his betrayals.

  A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, a hiss that spoke volumes of the rage simmering beneath the surface. "You promised me, James," she spat, the words sharp and precise, cutting through the hushed atmosphere of the office. "You swore, on everything we've built, that it was done. That you would never do this again." Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with the sheer force of her fury. "And yet…" Her gaze flickered downwards for a fraction of a second, a gesture laden with disgust, before snapping back to his face, her eyes blazing. "I find you now… balls deep… in a girl young enough to almost be your daughter."

  The words exploded from her, raw and unfiltered, echoing through the suddenly silent office. Heads turned, whispers rippled through the cubicles, but Constance was oblivious. Years of biting her tongue, of burying her hurt, had reached their breaking point. "Do you have any goddamn idea," she growled, her voice dropping to a dangerous, husky level, "what happened about an hour ago?" She paused, letting the question hang in the air, thick with unspoken terror. "Your daughter, James. Our Lily. She was almost killed."

  His face paled, a flicker of confusion and then dawning horror crossing his features. But Constance wasn't finished. "But you wouldn't know that, would you?" she continued, her voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "Because you don't pick up your phone when I call. You were too busy. Too engrossed. Too… busy with your young hussy." The last words were spat out with venomous contempt.

  With a decisive movement, she turned and walked to the large executive desk that dominated the office, a desk that had once symbolized their shared ambition and success. She sank into the leather chair behind it, her posture ramrod straight despite the tremor that ran through her hands. Her eyes scanned the polished surface before settling on the bottom drawer. She knew he kept a bottle of expensive whiskey there, a habit she had always disapproved of. Constance had never been a drinker. She hated the taste, the smell, the very idea of it. But today… today was different. Today, the acrid burn felt like the only thing that might cauterize the raw wound in her soul. She had almost lost her daughter. And now, the fresh sting of his latest betrayal.

  She pulled out the heavy crystal decanter, the amber liquid swirling within. Finding a thick-bottomed tumbler, she poured a generous measure, her hand surprisingly steady. The office held its breath, a silent audience to her unfolding drama. She lifted the glass to her lips, the whiskey catching the harsh fluorescent light. She tilted her head back and swallowed, the liquid fire searing its way down her throat. A gasp escaped her lips, but she didn't cough, didn't flinch. She simply lowered the empty glass with a sigh that held the weight of years of unspoken pain.

  Her gaze, now sharp and unwavering, locked onto James, who stood frozen, a deer caught in headlights. "Pack your shit," she said, her voice low but firm, devoid of any trace of the woman he thought he knew. There was no hesitation, no room for argument.

  "What?" James stammered, the shock finally registering.

  "You are done, James," she repeated, each word a death knell. "I can't trust you. Not anymore. Not for a single goddamn second."

  "But baby…" he began, reaching a trembling hand towards her.

  Constance slammed the empty glass down on the desk, the sharp crack echoing through the tense silence. "You're fired," she declared, her voice ringing with newfound authority. "And you can expect a letter, or more likely a very pointed phone call, from my lawyer first thing in the morning. And that girl you just so thoroughly enjoyed? Take her with you. You two deserve each other." The venom returned to her voice, a low, lethal hiss.

  She snatched the phone from its cradle, her movements swift and purposeful. "Security? Yes, this is Mrs. Hanigan. Mr. Hanigan is needing his access reworked. Immediately. All of his access. And please make sure IT removes all of his credentials from the computer system as well." There was a hesitant response on the other end. "Yes, of course I am sure. I just fired my husband. So make sure it is done, and done correctly, or perhaps I'll have another name to add to that list." Her voice held a steely resolve that brooked no argument.

  She looked up, her eyes sweeping across the dozens of faces peering into her office, a mixture of shock, pity, and morbid curiosity etched on their features. A small, almost triumphant smirk played on her lips. "Michelson!" she called out, her voice cutting through the silence. A young man, looking flustered, hurried to her doorway. Constance didn't even glance at him. Her focus remained fixed on her stunned husband. "I suggest you leave now, James," she said, her voice dangerously soft. "Before I have you arrested for trespassing too."

  James Hanigan, his face a mask of disbelief and dawning panic, backed slowly out of the office, his world collapsing around him with each hesitant step. The weight of her words, the finality of her actions, hung heavy in the air, leaving him reeling in the stunned silence of his former domain.

  Michelson stood frozen just outside Constance Hanigan's office, the raw emotion of the scene he'd just witnessed hanging heavy in the air. He'd been a loyal employee of the Hanigan’s for three years, a silent observer of their seemingly perfect life. He'd always been baffled by James's behavior, a constant undercurrent of disrespect that Michelson couldn't quite decipher. Constance was, in his eyes, the epitome of everything a man should cherish in a partner. Strikingly beautiful, yes, with a sharp intelligence that could dissect complex problems in moments, and possessing a wealth that could insulate them from any earthly worry. But it was more than that. It was the way she carried herself, a quiet confidence that suggested she was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who could indeed own the world if she so chose.

  He'd never seen her vulnerable before. Always composed, always in control. The raw pain and incandescent fury that had just erupted from her were shocking, revealing a fragility he hadn't imagined existed beneath that polished exterior. And the reason for her devastation… the near-death of her daughter, compounded by her husband's callous infidelity… resonated deeply within him. He felt a surge of empathy for this woman who had always seemed untouchable.

  Taking a hesitant step into the office, Michelson spoke softly, not wanting to intrude on her grief. "Mrs. Hanigan?" he ventured.

  Constance looked up, her eyes still shimmering with unshed tears, but the hard edge that had been directed at her husband had softened, replaced by a weariness that aged her in that moment. James's hasty retreat had left a vacuum, and in that space, the raw ache of her pain was palpable. She pushed a small, mangled object across the polished surface of the desk towards Michelson. It was a high-end digital camera, its lens cracked, its casing dented.

  "Go down to the electronic store," she said, her voice still slightly hoarse. "I want you to get this exact camera, or something better. Make sure it's the latest model, high-definition, with excellent zoom capabilities. And get extra batteries, memory cards… the works."

  Michelson picked up the broken camera, turning it over in his hands. "What happened to it?" he asked gently, his brow furrowed with concern.

  Constance's gaze drifted away for a moment, a flicker of something akin to gratitude crossing her features as she looked back at him. "The young man that saved my daughter's life," she explained, her voice catching slightly. "He dropped it as he… as he intervened. It broke in the process."

  Michelson's understanding deepened. He knew how fiercely Constance loved Lily. Her daughter was the center of her world, the one truly vulnerable point in her otherwise impenetrable armor. The thought of Lily being in danger… he could only imagine the terror Constance must have felt. He nodded slowly, his respect for her growing even more.

  "Price?" he asked, his tone practical.

  A faint, almost wry smirk touched Constance's lips, a brief flash of the old steel returning. "Michelson," she said, her eyes meeting his directly. "I don't care if it costs you ten thousand dollars. Just make sure it's the best. Make sure it has everything. Lily… I need to make sure I have everything."

  He nodded firmly, understanding the unspoken need behind her words. This wasn't just about replacing a broken camera; it was about preserving memories, about documenting the life that had almost been lost. "Understood, Mrs. Hanigan," he said, turning to leave, his steps quickening with a sense of urgency.

  Constance watched him go, then reached for the whiskey bottle again. She poured another generous measure, the amber liquid swirling like the turmoil within her. She took a slow, deliberate sip, the burn no longer quite so shocking, almost a familiar ache now. She sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and a newfound resolve.

  Then, she looked up, her gaze sweeping across the open-plan office, catching the curious and sympathetic glances of her employees. Her voice, clear and strong despite the earlier emotional outburst, rang out across the room. "And from now on," she announced, her chin lifting slightly, "it's Miss. Not Mrs." The declaration hung in the air, a definitive statement of a new chapter, a public severing of ties. The subtle emphasis on "Miss" was a clear message: the "Mrs." belonged to a past she was determined to leave behind.