Nick’s eyelids fluttered open, and the first thing he noticed was the sterile, blinding white of the hospital room. A sharp, antiseptic smell assaulted his nostrils, making him grimace. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and he could feel the scratchy sheets beneath him, probably the cheapest cotton blend imaginable. Great, he thought. Just what I needed—a hospital room straight out of a budget horror film. He attempted to move, but a sharp pain shot through his side, forcing him to suck in a breath. He glanced down, noticing the IV attached to his arm and the faint bruise blooming across his ribs. Fantastic, he groaned inwardly, as if my day couldn’t get any worse. His mind was foggy, piecing together the events that had led him here. He remembered crossing the street—because even the hedge fund manager with the Midas touch had to get lunch sometimes—and then... nothing. Everything after that was a blur, save for a brief, bone-jarring impact and the screech of tires. “Mr. Carter, you’re awake.” A nurse with a too-bright smile entered the room, her voice dripping with faux sympathy that grated on his nerves. “How are you feeling?” “Like I got run over by a truck,” Nick snapped, though his voice came out hoarse and weak, much to his irritation. And if you tell me to stay calm, I swear I’ll lose it. “You’re at St. Joseph’s Hospital,” she continued, ignoring his sarcasm, “You were in an accident. The doctor will be in shortly to explain—” “I don’t need a damn doctor to tell me what happened. Some idiot wasn’t watching where they were going and now I’m here, wasting my time.” The nurse’s smile faltered slightly, but she pressed on. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.” “Lucky?” Nick spat the word like it was poison. “Do I look lucky to you? I’m stuck in this hellhole because some reckless moron can’t drive, and now you’re telling me I’m ‘lucky’?” I’m going to find out who did this, he vowed, his jaw clenching. And when I do, they’re going to wish they never set foot behind the wheel.