The cold wind roared across the cliff as the client clung to my hand in panic, his grip slipping little by little. I could feel his strength fading fast.
Desperate, I looked up at Isla and shouted, my voice breaking, “Isla, help me! The client can’t hold on much longer!”
She slowly released the man in her arms and looked down at me. Her gaze dropped to my bleeding arm and trembling fingers. Then, with a faint frown, she said in a calm, cold voice, “There’s water below. From this height, you won’t die. Wait for the rescue team.”
Those were the last words I heard before I fell.
The client, too weak to keep holding on, finally lost his grip. The freezing lake hit me hard, stealing the air from my lungs as everything went dark.
The dirty water filled my chest and stomach, burning as I choked, but none of it hurt as much as her words echoing in my head.
When I woke up, the doctor told me I had swallowed too much water and developed a serious lung infection that needed quick treatment. But the person who came to sign the consent papers wasn’t Isla; it was her assistant.