The scent of antiseptic was the scent of his failure.
Caspian adjusted the thin blanket over Isolde’s shoulders, his touch a perfect imitation of concern. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and performative. A faint, theatrical sigh escaped her lips.
“Thank you, darling,” she whispered, not opening her eyes. “You’re so good to me.”
“Always,” he replied, his voice a low murmur of devotion. The word tasted like ash in his mouth.
He was a prisoner in this sterile, private wing of the hospital. A willing captive. It was the only way. To fight her, he had to first become her most loyal guardian, her most devoted servant. He had to lower her guard completely.
He moved about the room, a study in quiet anxiety. He refilled her water glass. He straightened the magazines on the bedside table. With every mundane act, his mind was a razor, slicing through the deception. He noted the nurse’s patrol pattern: every thirty minutes, a quick check-in. He saw the security camera tucked into the corner of the ceiling, its single red eye a silent witness.
He had already identified his exit. A service door at the far end of the hall, used by the catering staff. It was his only chance.
He walked to the window, feigning a need for air. He pulled out his phone and dialed his office at Hawthorne Industries, making sure his voice was loud enough for Isolde to hear.
“Mark, it’s me.” He let his voice crack. “Listen, you’re in charge now. Everything. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Weeks. Maybe longer. Isolde needs me.”
He listened to the silence on the other end, then continued his performance. “Don’t call unless the building is on fire. I can’t be distracted. She’s all that matters.”
He hung up without waiting for a reply. He could feel Isolde’s satisfaction from across the room. She believed him. Dr. Finch, who had just entered, believed him too, giving him a nod of sympathetic approval. They thought they had him broken, a puppet dancing on strings of guilt.
Let them.
Later, under the pretense of cheering her up, he suggested ordering from her favorite restaurant. “Anything you want,” he said, pulling up the delivery app on his tablet. “You deserve it.”
While scrolling through the menu, his fingers moved with practiced speed. He added a small, cheap burner phone from the app’s electronics section to the cart, buried between a truffle risotto and a bottle of sparkling water. A disposable, untraceable line to the outside world.
When the food arrived, he unpacked it with a flourish. In the confusion of plates and containers, the small box containing the phone slipped easily into his pocket. He excused himself to the restroom, unwrapped it, and hid the device in the inner lining of his suit jacket.
He returned to her bedside, a perfect smile on his face. He was no longer a prisoner. He was a hunter, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
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