Seven Ella
SEVEN
Ella
A smell awakens me, and I’m in a comfortable bed. The scent is sharp and oddly comforting, a strange blend of minty air freshener and lavender. I breathe out evenly, unsure why that combination makes my brain twitch.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
A high, mechanical chirping bounces above my head. I crack my eyes open.
Everything around me is white. Not the sterile white I’d expect from a hospital, but a soft, designer white. The walls and counters are beige and gold-trimmed, like someone decorated this place for a magazine shoot and decided to toss a wounded woman into the middle of it for drama.
I glance down. A plush white blanket covers me, warmed and tucked. My head feels like someone used it for bocce ball practice. My vision swims, then slowly sharpens.
My stepmother sits in a chair next to the bed, ankles crossed, perfectly still, and her floral perfume wafts my way.
Her nails are flawless, manicured in pale pink.
Her expression is one of mild amusement, like this is a casual brunch and not a hospital room where I just woke up with half my brain rattling loose.
My lungs spasm. I gasp.
“Relax.” Sylveria Rendale lifts one of those perfect hands in a dismissive wave. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
She’s not wrong. I fumble around until I find the remote attached to the side of the bed and smash the button. The motor whines as the bed creaks upright, and I press a shaking palm to my temple, trying to catch up. “What the hell happened?”
Sylveria tilts her head like she’s examining a piece of fruit she’s not sure she wants to buy.
Her newest hairdo is a straight brunette cut with not a strand out of place, and her suit—a pink linen number, pants and jacket with a matching shell—looks like it stepped out of a Vogue spread.
Unwrinkled. Immaculate. How does she wear linen without causing one wrinkle?
“Apparently someone tried to kill you,” she says. “Another man waiting for you shot him. My guy hit that guy in the head and brought you here. It seems like you have more than one enemy after you. You’re welcome.”
I blink. It’s rare for me to be speechless, but right now, in a luxury hospital suite with Sylveria fucking Rendale lounging next to me like this is normal, I find myself struggling for words. I swallow. “I’m going to need more than that.”
“That’s all I’ve got, dear.” Her tone is syrupy and smug.
I narrow my eyes. “Didn’t you try to have me killed just a short time ago?”
She waves a hand, somehow managing to look elegant even as she brushes off an attempted murder. “Oh, please. It was one little hit. I don’t think there’s any reason to get too upset. It failed, as you know.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m still here.” Though honestly, it feels like my body went five rounds in the NBA as a basketball.
Why would Sylveria save me and then sit here in the hospital as if watching over me?
She hates me. A diamond necklace clings to her throat and matches the six-string bracelet on her wrist as well as three thick rings glittering on her fingers.
Sylveria Rendale truly loves her diamonds. She wears them like armor.
I shake my head and immediately regret it. Pain lights up my skull like someone cracked it with a bat. “Why did you have somebody bring me to the hospital? We both know you want me dead.”
She tilts her head. “Oh, dear. Would you stop being so dramatic?” She sounds like she might be frowning, but her Botoxed forehead stays unlined.
No movement, no expression. Sylveria is a gorgeous woman.
Still in her forties, her eyes are a piercing, unnerving blue, and her bone structure is straight out of a sculpture.
I’m almost certain she’s had some work done, but not the overdone kind.
Just enough to make her face unforgettable.
I can see what my father saw in her.
Too bad she’s also a monster. As beautiful as she is poisonous.
My gaze drops to my arms. No straps. No restraints.
But I’m not stupid. If I know Sylveria, and unfortunately I do, there are guards just outside the door.
She wouldn’t risk letting me wake up without backup.
I try to banish the reasonable fear coursing through me.
“What do you want?” My voice shakes, but not enough to count me out.
I’m in a hospital bed after being knocked unconscious, so I figure I get a pass.
The memories slam into me without warning. The man in my safe house. His shadow, the hit, the scuffle. Blood. Darkness. Then the guy outside shooting him.
I gasp. My heart kicks against my ribs. “What happened to the guy who attacked me in the house?” I try to read anything in that cold, lovely face. “Is he dead?”
“No. You didn’t kill him, and neither did the bullets he took outside,” Sylveria says, her tone flat, almost disinterested. “My people have escorted him somewhere secure.”
I stare at her, waiting for more, but she just smooths the leg of her linen pants like this is all routine.
“Great. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you discover after they torture him.
” I fold my arms over the blanket. “I’d really like to know who he is, considering it clearly wasn’t you who sent him. Who else wants me dead?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They remain as cold as polished sapphire left in an Arctic freezer. “I assume quite a few people want you dead, Ella, so let’s not play that kind of game.”
I don’t know what game she thinks we’re playing, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially not while wearing a hospital gown and nothing else, sitting under high-thread-count sheets, while Sylveria probably has three concealed weapons tucked inside her designer purse.
The bag is unmistakably Hermes in a limited edition, no doubt.
Pale rose leather, sharp-edged and impractical.
I have to admire it, even though I hate that I do.
I’m not up to leaping for it and grabbing a weapon, so I look around the room.
There’s no clock. No window. No way to gauge time.
I pause, then give in. “How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out for three hours,” she says, her voice lowering just a tad.
Am I inconveniencing her? “It took my associate maybe thirty minutes to get you here. The doctor said you have a mild concussion and quite a lot of bruising.” Her tone softens, not with compassion, but interest. “I’m impressed. You put up a good fight.”
I don’t answer her. I’m absurdly glad I didn’t kill the guy. Oh, most folks think I’m a murderer, or an attempted one, anyway. I’m not. I actually didn’t mean to hurt Thorn to the degree I did.
She taps a ring against the chair arm once before adding, “We will find out who he is. My people are … very thorough.”
I don’t doubt that. Sylveria Rendale doesn’t waste time or resources. If someone tried to kill me and it wasn’t on her orders, she’ll dig up everything. “I want to know.”
“Of course. For now, I obviously saved your life.” Sylveria brushes the diamond choker at her neck. “So you owe me.”
My mind blanks for a second. I try to rewind, to find something in the fog behind my eyes. Then I see the moment with the rain slicking the driveway, a figure outside the house, a hand on my shoulder. He asked if I was okay in an Irish accent.
Was he one of Justice’s men?
If so, who attacked me inside the house?
It doesn’t make sense. My gut says it wasn’t Justice.
If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t send someone.
He’d show up and do it himself. I glance at Sylveria, who’s still fiddling with her necklace.
“Wait. You didn’t take the guy from outside the house, too, did you? ”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the window shade. Then back to me. “No.”
Ah, I get it. “Your guy checked him out and found, what? An Irish mob tattoo on him?” I try to smile even though my whole face feels like it’s been hit with a brick. “You didn’t dare take one of Justice’s soldiers.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” she says.
“As I said—we saved your life. Now you owe me.” She shifts in the chair with an aristocratic grace that would fool most people.
Not me. I know exactly where she came from.
Sylveria Rendale might look like old money, but she crawled out of the backwoods of Kentucky.
Beauty bought her a ticket to Silicon Valley, and my father, for reasons I will never understand, bought everything she was selling.
And here she is. Smug, polished, and smiling like the Queen of Versailles while I lie half broken in a hospital bed.
Curiosity has always been my downfall. “What do you want?” I haven’t had time to fully hack the TimeGem system yet, so this isn’t about that.
“It really doesn’t matter.” Sylveria straightens her jacket like this is a done deal.
“Because as soon as the doctor releases you, you’ll be coming home with me.
I must make sure you’re all right.” Her voice is softer now, with that artificial calm she uses when she wants to sound maternal.
Except she sounds more robotic than concerned. What is going on?
“Listen, Sylveria,” I say, my voice cold, “if you were falling off a cliff, I’d record the whole event so I could replay your death over and over again when I need a little pick-me-up.”
She exhales through her perfectly pink painted mouth. “You do need to grow up. I saved your life. You owe me, and you’re coming with me. I have guards on the door and downstairs. You don’t have a choice. So instead of throwing a fit, why don’t you just behave for once?”
My fingers curl around the blanket. This is becoming tedious.
She wants something, but I still don’t know what, and the longer she stalls, the more that unknown gnaws at me.
My brain spins with possibilities. “Don’t tell me the diamonds aren’t charging the TimeGem servers anymore, like they have for the last ten years. ”
“Of course they are,” she replies with that fake-bright smile. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
I feel an almost physical urge to slap her just to see if her face will actually move.
She’s so tightly Botoxed, I doubt it. “Citrines are stronger,” I say flatly.
“TimeGem was built on citrine crystalline symmetry. Everyone’s running AI now, and that means more drain.
More demand. More power. You need citrines.
You need me to charge them.” I’m guessing, of course.
She doesn’t deny it, but nothing in her expression confirms my hunch, either.
An image hits me like a punch: me chained to a server core, locked in a freezing room, forced to push energy through stone and wire forever while Sylveria and her board rake in the profits.
I’d rather starve.
Her eyes drift around the plush hospital suite. “We’ll discuss it once we get you home. I do want to leave this unfortunate place.”
My dislike sharpens into something uglier. But behind the anger is unease. What does she actually want? “Don’t you think we should discuss the fact that you sent a hitman after me a few months ago?”
“I truly don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies without hesitation. “But for the record, I’m quite happy you’re still alive. You do owe me for paying for your schooling all these years.”
“Bullshit.” I sit up straighter, ignoring the throb behind my eyes, and scan the room. There’s no closet. No chair with my things. No indication that I ever had clothes here in the first place. My skin prickles. “Where are my clothes?”
She doesn’t answer and just watches me with a slight smile.
“My father’s trust paid for my schooling.” I’m feeling ready to fight. “And just so you’re aware, you’ll be hearing from my attorney any day now.”
That gets her attention. Barely. A flicker shows in her eyes.
“So far I’ve held Rosalie off from suing for the corpus,” I continue. It was because I want access to the servers and don’t want Sylveria to see me coming. This little kidnapping negates that plan, so I might as well put my cards on the table.
Her smile curves upward, smug and unbothered. “My attorneys are prepared.”
“Mine’s better.”
“I’m not entirely sure it’ll matter.” She checks a diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist.
I hide a shiver. That doesn’t sound good.
She clears her throat. “Your clothing should be here any minute, along with your discharge papers. How annoying that they’re late. I might have to have this doctor taken care of.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, not wanting my absent doctor to be hurt. I throw the blanket off my legs, the hospital gown shifting awkwardly around me. I don’t care. “I’ll walk out of here like this if I have to. I’m not going anywhere with you.” My voice is sharp, but beneath it is fear. Real, cold fear.
The door opens and we both pause as Corinda and Stacia walk inside, coffees in their hands. Corinda gives one to her mother.
Stacia smiles at me. “I brought you one, but it’s truly crappy.”
I shake my head.
Corinda looks lovely in a green dress with Louboutin heels, while Stacia appears comfortable in a blue sweater with stylish jeans and cool brown boots. She still has the glittery silver bag over her arm. Must be her favorite.
Sylveria sips the coffee, grimaces, and turns to put the cup on the counter. “Gross. I was just telling your, ah, sister that she needs to come home. For her own safety.”
Corinda places her cup next to her mother’s and pulls out her phone. “We should post this.”
“No.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t even think of posting me in this gown.”
A loud thud echoes from the other side of the door. We all freeze. Slowly, in eerie unison, we turn our heads toward the sound. Another thud. Heavier this time. Closer.
Sylveria reaches into her purse.
The door instantly explodes inward. It’s kicked open with so much force it slams into the wall, bounces off, and nearly swings shut again from the impact.
Justice steps through.
He’s tall, muscled, and bleeding from the corner of his mouth. The deep brown of his eyes glitters with what appears to be anger. Maybe rage. His dark hair is a mess, and his gaze locks onto Sylveria like she’s the reason the world is on fire.
Corinda and Stacia both move toward the window and away from Justice.
I sneeze three times. Hard. Nerves?
Sylveria pivots, fast, pulling a silver handgun from her purse and aiming it at his chest.
He doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly. “All of your men are down,” he says, voice flat. “All of mine are in their place. You sure you want to shoot me?”