Elena Vasquez
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and panic, fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as I sprinted, Alexander’s hand gripping mine, Marco’s footsteps pounding behind us. Sofia’s flatline from Victor’s feed looped in my head, a scream I couldn’t silence. The gala’s chaos: Victor cuffed, the ballroom erupting, truth blazing on every screen, felt a lifetime away. All that mattered was Mamá, her blood on my hands from the rooftop, her whisper, “Live, mija” choking me with every breath.
The ICU doors loomed, guarded by a nurse with a clipboard and eyes that said no visitors. I didn’t slow. “Sofia Vasquez. Where is she?”
“Family only,” she snapped, but Alexander’s presence: tall, blood-streaked, radiating billionaire
