Monsters of Manhattan

Chapter Four: Assaulted in the Upper East Side

The butterfly sensation people receive when they’re nervous occurred inside the pit of my stomach as the elevator jolted upward toward the penthouse I called home.

The mirrors covering the interior of the elevator reflected a pale brunette girl with tired blue eyes, reminding me that I hadn’t slept well in days. Besides worrying about who had my purse, I had spent majority of my time outside of school at Columbia and Cornell’s Presbyterian hospital where Ethan was being hospitalized.

Two days ago, the doctors had done a few CT scans to insure there had been no neurological damage, and after a few complications with Ethan’s respiratory system, they all agreed Ethan was ready to be released from his medical induced coma. 

Ethan’s mom, Melissa, had urged me to head home and rest, when I told her I would stay the night; I didn’t want to miss any sudden changes or Ethan awaking up. 

During the past week of Ethan‘s hospitalization, Melissa and I had begun to bond. I had explained to her my plans taking over my mother’s fashion company when I was ready, while she explained why she enjoyed working with the needy and the people she has met because of it. 

Someone she would constantly talk about--if she wasn’t talking about her kids--was a boy named Bentley from Brooklyn. She claimed he was a well-educated young man, who “would be Upper Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor” if he had the money to live here. 

A distant ding from somewhere above signaled the elevators arrival to my destination. With the doors fully ajar, I stepped into my palace of Versailles resembling penthouse. From the angel painted ceiling to the marbled floor, my mother had specifically designed our house to look like an exact replica of the French monarchy’s former home. 

The sound of my red peep-toe pumps tapping the floor echoed throughout the empty apartment. My brother and father were spending the week in the Hamptons, while my mother had a fashion show in Milan. The help, also had the day off, leaving me alone in my luxurious New York City penthouse.

Making my way up the stairs, I noticed the lights were on in the living room. I turned around and descended one step at a time, while thinking of the multiple reasons why the light in the living room was on. There was: the maids forgot to turn it off, Andrew or my father came back from something and forgot to turn it off, someone left it on for me, or the reason I was terrified, a killer was waiting for me. 

Walking slowly into the only illumined room, I thought about an escape plan, but to my misfortune the “killer” I was anticipating ended up being Manhattan’s infamous womanizer, Justin Blake. 

He was wearing his usual outfit, a Versace black suit complimented with a red handkerchief, and was sitting on my mother’s white settee, reading the New York Times. 

I cleared my throat to gain his attention, he looked up from the piece of article he was reading and flashed his trademark smile. 

“Can I help you?” I asked as he closed the newspaper and set it down on top of the glass coffee table. 

Completely avoiding my question, he asked: “How are you, Chelsea?” Something in his voice caused my spine to quiver from fright. It was my body’s way of telling me that Justin’s visit was full of cruel intentions. 

“I’m great,” I replied with as much altitude I could develop in my current emotional state.

“Really?” he questioned with a sinister smirk plastered on his ironically angelic face. 

“Did you expect something different?” I catechized. 

“Well…” he began before pointing at the newspaper he had been reading moments ago, “I would think Ethan Wright’s…girlfriend…would have a hard time adjusting to his coma.”