My heart felt as though it had been pulled from my chest and dropped onto stone.
“Are you with Vivian?” I asked, my voice falling to a dead, hollow whisper.
“Natalie, this isn't the forum for your paranoia,” Marcus snapped, stepping away from the crowd, his tone lowering into that cold, diagnostic baritone he used to terminate vendor contracts:
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“I am in the middle of closing a multi-billion-dollar strategic partnership. Seventy-three institutional partners and the entire executive committee are in this room. The ambulance is on the way. The medical professionals will handle the clinical stabilization. I need two hours.”
I stared down at the blood beneath my hips.
Two hours.
While our fourth child bled out onto the floor of our home, the man who had sworn before God to cherish me was calculating the cost-benefit analysis of sixty minutes of cocktail networking against the death of his own bloodline.
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