Nathan kissed her forehead, then glared at me. "Get out, or I'm calling the police!"

To the receptionist, he barked, "Get security to throw this crazy woman out! Who knows what she'll do next? She might hurt other guests."

The crowd chimed in, "Kick her out, or we'll complain!"

The receptionist, flustered, radioed for security. Two burly guards grabbed my arms, dragging me toward the exit.

...

I struggled, my elbows bruising from their grip.

In the chaos, Carrie slipped closer and tripped me. Already off-balance, I crashed to the floor, my ankle swelling instantly and my knee scraping open, blood seeping through.

"Oops!" Carrie gasped, feigning innocence. "Are you okay? I was trying to help you, not make you fall."

I endured the pain, trying to stand but failed. Nathan looked on, utterly disappointing me.

I had no more hope for him. My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone to call 911. Before I could dial, he rushed forward and snatched it.

"What tricks are you trying again?" he sneered. "We all saw you fall on purpose to frame my wife and the hotel."

"I have a bleeding disorder!" I shouted, pain searing through me. "Call an ambulance!"

He didn't budge, tossing my phone across the lobby. The receptionist hesitated, wary of trouble.

Alone and helpless, I dragged myself toward my phone, using my uninjured leg for support. Then a sharp heel slammed onto my hand.

Carrie loomed over me. "Sign a statement admitting this was your fault, and I'll call an ambulance. Otherwise..."

She pressed harder, the pain shooting through my hand, mingling with the agony in my knee and ankle. My vision blurred from pain and rage.

Just as I thought I'd faint, sharp, purposeful high-heel clicks echoed from the entrance. Tracy stormed in, flanked by executives and security.

"Alva, I checked," she began. "That wretch has been cheating. He's used this hotel more times than you have in years, and he gave your VIP card to his mistress. I'm tearing him apart today."

Her voice cut off as she saw me crumpled on the floor, blood staining my skirt. The receptionist, who'd been so smug, went pale and stammered, "M-Ms. Frye?"