"Wait," Aria said, holding up a hand. She walked over to the thick glass window of the ICU and peered through the blinds, looking down at the street level.
Even from four stories up, the flashing lights of the paparazzi swarming the front entrance of St. Jude's were blinding. They were clustered around the barricades like a pack of feral, highly caffeinated hyenas waiting for a scrap of meat.
Aria turned back to Damien, gesturing to her own frumpy, beige trench coat and mousy brown synthetic wig.
"Damien, think about it," Aria reasoned, crossing her arms. "Your wife is supposedly lying in that bed, fighting for her life. If the paparazzi somehow manage to photograph you putting a random woman into the back of your Maybach, they are going to think you are cheating on your dying wife."
Damien paused.
"Fine," he sighed. "I'll have Richard pull the SUV to the front to pick you up."
