Chapter 21 Bianca
BIANCA
I hate the sight of blood.
And this office is now flooded with it.
First from Mr. Rose’s nose, and now from his eye.
A blue fountain pen sticks out of it. Rose instinctively grabs at it, but before he can pull it out—and likely his eye along with it—he trips on a three-hole punch on the ground, falls backward, and hits the base of his skull on the side of his desk.
He’s on the ground now. And he’s not moving.
“My God, Harrison.” I walk slowly toward his body. “Is he… Is he dead?”
Harrison kneels and takes his pulse. “No. Just unconscious. The blow to his skull plus the loss of blood. But he needs immediate medical attention if he’s going to live or have any chance of regaining sight in his left eye.”
I swallow. “Should we take him to the hospital?”
“Someone should, but it’s not going to be us.” He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. “The two of us need to get the hell out of here before the cops show up. We’ll let someone at the front desk know Rose had an accident or something, and then we’ll get the hell out of here.”
I look around, my heart pounding into my throat. “Does Mr. Rose have any cameras in here? The footage of you jamming a pen into his eye will look pretty damning.”
He crosses his arms. “It was in self-defense.”
“But you attacked first. It’s not going to look good. I know what this man is capable of, but the rest of the world doesn’t.” I continue to scan the area. “It doesn’t look like there are any cameras, though.”
He chuckles darkly. “Of course not. He probably takes young male callers in here often. The guy at the front desk didn’t seem surprised to see me. Rose wouldn’t want any video evidence of his affairs to exist.”
I bite my lip. “I guess not.”
“That said, there is certainly footage of the two of us entering his office right before all of this, so we still need to move quickly.” He grabs my hand. “Come on.”
We open the door to the office and leave, closing it behind us.
Harrison runs up the front desk, a veil of concern atop his face. “Sir,” he says to the receptionist. “Mr. Rose got a little…spirited in our meeting. He ended up with a bad injury to his eye. You’ll want to call 911 and make sure he’s taken care of.”
The young man widens his eyes. “Oh, God. What happened?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Client confidentiality and all that. But I’d call now if I were you. He needs immediate medical attention.”
“Right.” The receptionist pulls out a pad of paper. “And what was your name again, sir?”
I step forward. “His name is Ace.”
He scrunches his eyebrows. “Like the card?”
“Exactly. And my name is Whitney Royale. We’re guests of Mr. Rose’s. Seriously, call 911 right now. It doesn’t look pretty in there.”
“Right. Will do.” He pounds the three numbers into his phone.
Before he looks back up, Harrison and I have slipped out the revolving door onto Michigan Avenue, with nothing but the clothes—or lack thereof—on our backs.