A nurse hovered beside me, her voice gentle but concerned. “You were brought in by a good Samaritan. Passed out in a pool of blood at a boutique. Head trauma. You lost a lot of blood—got hundreds of stitches.”
My hand instinctively moved to my head. It was bandaged. Aching. Throbbing.
I blinked slowly. “Who brought me here?”
“We’re not sure. They didn’t leave a name. Just dropped you off and disappeared.”
“So… no family?”
The nurse hesitated.
“We called your emergency contact. Your husband, Troy Green. Also listed your in-laws. But…” she gave me an awkward smile, “no one’s come. You’ve been here for nearly twelve hours.”
I stared at her, waiting for the punchline.
Nothing.
“Twelve hours?” My voice cracked.
She nodded and handed me my things. “Phone’s in there. Maybe try calling him?”
I clutched the phone with trembling hands. My screen lit up—no missed calls. No messages.
I dialed Troy’s number. Straight to voicemail.
Again. And again.
The fourth time, I stopped.
Instead, I opened Instagram.
The moment the app launched, a notification popped up.
BiancaGreen_ went LIVE.
I tapped it.
My breath stopped.