Dr. Alistair Finch strode into the private waiting room with an air of grave authority. He was tall, silver-haired, and projected a calm that Caspian now found utterly menacing.
“A sudden, aggressive progression of the cellular degradation,” Finch said, his voice a low, sympathetic murmur. He used a string of complex medical terms, a verbal smokescreen designed to intimidate and confuse. “We were lucky you got her here so quickly, Caspian.”
He placed a hand on Caspian’s shoulder. “What she needs now is absolute rest. Zero external stress. I’m putting her in a medically isolated wing. No visitors. Not even family. It’s the only way to give her a fighting chance.”
The words were a death sentence for the truth. He was being cut off. Isolated. Specifically, he realized, from his grandmother.
***
Caspian nodded numbly, but his mind was racing, cataloging the inconsistencies. He had seen the looks on the ER nurses’ faces when Dr. Finch had swept in and taken over, bypassing all standard hospital protocol. It wasn’t deference; it was confusion.
And the security outside Isolde’s room was absurdly heavy. Two large men in black suits stood guard. They weren’t protecting a patient. They were guarding a secret.
He wasn’t a worried partner sitting vigil. He was a captive audience, and the play was for his benefit alone.
***
Across the city, Zara’s phone lit up with the same news alert. Lyra, who was sketching in a notebook beside her, saw the headline over her shoulder.
A flicker of her old self, the woman who had once loved Caspian Hawthorne, crossed her face. “Is he okay?” she asked, her voice soft with a worry she couldn’t quite suppress.
Zara didn’t answer immediately. She read the article, her eyes scanning the details. A sudden collapse. Seizure-like symptoms. A rush to a specific, non-specialist hospital under the exclusive care of her personal doctor.
It didn’t add up. It was too neat, too dramatic. Real medical emergencies were messy, chaotic. This sounded staged.
“I don’t know,” Zara said, her own voice cool and analytical. “But something about this is wrong.”
***
She turned to her laptop, her movements sharp and precise. She pulled up the file for the sealed malpractice suit. Finch v. Doe. A case buried to hide a damaging truth.
She read the news report again. Theatrical collapse. Controlled scene. Media waiting.
It clicked. A cold, sickening certainty washed over her. The lawsuit hinted at a doctor willing to commit fraud for a price. The public emergency was a performance designed to manipulate an audience of one.
This wasn’t a medical crisis. It was an act. A meticulously constructed lie, and she finally had the proof she needed to be sure.
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