Chapter 3
The private medical wing smelled of antiseptic, cold steel, and latent dread. Clara paced the length of the beige linoleum corridor, her silver sequined dress catching the harsh fluorescent light in jarring, shimmering flashes. Inside the examination room, the family physician, Dr. Hayes, was stitching Lily’s forehead and monitoring her concussion.
Evelyn sat rigidly on a padded vinyl bench against the wall, her ruined white suit a stark, haunting reminder of the violence that had just unfolded. Her hands were still stained with Lily’s blood, yet she refused to wash them, as if scrubbing away the evidence would somehow diminish the reality of what had happened.
The heavy oak door clicked open, and Dr. Hayes stepped out, looking exhausted. "She’s stable," he murmured, wiping his brow with a sterile gauze pad. "The concussion is mild, but she lost a fair amount of blood. She needs absolute quiet for the next forty-eight hours. No stress, no noise."
Clara exhaled a breath she felt she had been holding since the moment she heard Lily’s cry. "Thank you, Doctor. Can I go in?"
"One at a time," Hayes replied, nodding toward the door before retreating down the hall to prepare intravenous fluids.
Clara slipped into the dim room. Lily lay pale against the crisp white pillows, a clean white bandage wrapping her small forehead. The sight of her daughter looking so fragile broke something deep inside Clara’s chest, but she forced the tears back. She sat on the edge of the mattress, gently taking Lily’s small, limp hand in hers.
Back in the corridor, Evelyn stood up, her joints popping in the quiet hallway. She walked over to the tall arched window overlooking the estate’s sprawling front lawns. Through the rain-streaked glass, she could see the flashing amber lights of the security gate at the end of the long drive. Arthur had made good on his threat; the entire family was trapped.
A soft click echoed down the hall. Julian Vance appeared from around the corner, his dark tuxedo jacket removed, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked older under the harsh lights, the fierce rage from the foyer replaced by a tired, calculated desperation.
"You shouldn't have screamed like that in front of Arthur," Julian said quietly, stopping a few feet away from Evelyn.
Evelyn didn't turn from the window. "A child almost died, Julian. Your wife tried to cripple Clara by proxy, and she missed her target. Don't talk to me about propriety."
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Julian sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Elena didn't do it alone. She doesn't have access to the maintenance logs. Someone else gave the order."
Evelyn slowly turned her head, her sharp eyes locking onto Julian’s face. "Who?"
