Chapter 3
The sterile hum of the private suburban clinic offered a stark, sobering contrast to the oppressive grandeur of the estate Arthur had just abandoned. Inside Examination Room Three, Dr. Marcus Vance adjusted his spectacles, his expression grim as he reviewed the comprehensive blood panel and imaging files Arthur had urgently requested. Natalie sat upright on the examination table, draped in a clean paper gown over her beige dress, her bare head bowed slightly. The bruising around her eyes had begun to fade into a sickly yellowish hue, a visible reminder of the systematic neglect she had endured.
"The cancer has progressed significantly," Dr. Vance said quietly, not looking up from the glowing monitor. "Without the immediate biopsy and subsequent targeted therapy you missed three months ago, the window for effective intervention has narrowed dangerously. I am not going to sugarcoat this, Arthur. If she had received the funds you sent when you sent them, she would be in remission right now."
Arthur stood near the corner of the room, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his black pants. The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He closed his eyes tightly, replaying every phone call with Beatrice where she had calmly assured him that Natalie was resting comfortably, that the treatments were ongoing, and that specialized care was simply expensive. A sickening wave of guilt washed over him. He had trusted the wrong person. He had prioritized financial security over physical presence, believing that money could buy safety when, in reality, it had only bought a gilded cage for a predator.
"Can we start treatment today, Marcus? Whatever it takes," Arthur asked, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside his chest.
"We are admitting her right now," the doctor replied, turning away from the screen to meet Arthur’s gaze directly. "The hospital board will try to delay due to the billing discrepancies tied to her previous file, but I’ve already flagged the account for emergency override under your personal corporate guarantee. Money is no longer the obstacle here. Time is."
Natalie reached out from the table, her thin, frail fingers wrapping gently around Arthur’s wrist as he stepped closer. Her eyes, though tired, held a fierce, quiet clarity. "You can't fix this with just a checkbook, Arthur," she said softly. "Beatrice isn't just a thief. She’s covered her tracks. The house, the accounts, the trust fund—she transferred everything legally three weeks ago when she knew I couldn't contest it."
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Arthur covered her small hand with his larger one, his jaw tightening into a hard, unyielding line. "She signed those papers using a forged medical power of attorney, Natalie. That isn't a legal transfer; it's identity theft and elder abuse. And by sunrise tomorrow, the state prosecutor’s office is going to have every single digital footprint she left behind."
***
