With a bloodied hand, Myra desperately fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed a number. She waited, heart pounding, but after two rings, only silence answered. She tried again and again, but no one picked up. Just as hope began to drain from her, a tear slipped from the corner of her eye, mixing with the relentless raindrops. A passerby, noticing her distress, quickly called an ambulance.
Meanwhile, across town, Julian Smith was consumed by the chaos of his grandfather's elaborate birthday banquet. He saw Myra's missed call, but in the overwhelming flurry of activity and the sheer exhaustion of the day, he simply didn't have the energy to call her back.
Three agonizing hours later, Myra's eyelids fluttered open. Sitting faithfully by her bedside was Eva Clark, her best friend, her face etched with concern.
"Myra, what happened to you?" Eva's voice was gentle, yet laced with urgency. "Where were you going in such a hurry on a day like this, in all that rain?"
Myra opened her mouth, a faint whisper forming on her lips, but before she could utter a single word, a news report blared from a nurse's phone nearby. "Did you know," the reporter's voice chirped, "Julian Smith brought his girlfriend to his grandfather's birthday banquet? Look, she is Aria Blackwell, Julian's secretary and childhood sweetheart!"
A wave of nausea washed over Myra. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the words, but they echoed in her mind.
"Myra, don't listen to them," Eva urged, her hand gently squeezing Myra's arm. "Just rest and get well soon. You can tell me everything later." But the damage was done. The news, coupled with the pain in her hand, had pierced Myra's already fragile state.