The evening was quiet, the air in the grand living room thick with unspoken tension. Caspian nursed a drink, watching the last light of day fade outside the towering windows. Isolde was curled on a chaise lounge, a blanket draped over her legs, the very picture of tragic grace.
Then, it happened.
A sharp, theatrical gasp. Her hand flew to her chest, clutching the delicate fabric of her silk robe. Her eyes widened in what looked like a perfect mime of terror and surprise.
“Caspian,” she choked out, her voice a strangled whisper.
She tried to rise, her body suddenly rigid. A violent tremor ran through her limbs. She pitched forward, collapsing from the chaise onto the expensive Persian rug with a sickeningly soft thud. Her body convulsed, a seizure-like fit that was both horrifying and flawlessly executed.
For a split second, Caspian’s mind screamed, It’s a lie.
But his body betrayed him. The sight of her on the floor, shaking and fragile, short-circuited his rational thought. The ingrained savior complex, the one she had cultivated in him for years, roared to life. Doubt was a luxury he couldn’t afford when a woman was dying at his feet.
He was across the room in an instant, dropping to his knees beside her. “Isolde!”
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Hurts,” she mumbled, her breath shallow.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he dialed for an ambulance. The panic in his voice was real, a visceral reflex he couldn’t control. He was a fool, and he knew it, but he was a fool trapped in his own script.
***
The paramedics were efficient, professional, and slightly confused. They wanted to take her to the nearest major trauma center, a logical choice.
But Isolde, now semi-conscious on a gurney, found her voice. “No,” she pleaded, her voice weak but insistent. “Dr. Finch… his hospital. Please.”
It was a crucial detail in her script. Maintain control. Keep the narrative within her own ecosystem.
The lead paramedic looked at Caspian for confirmation. In the chaos, with her life seemingly hanging by a thread, it felt like a dying wish. To argue would be monstrous.
“Do it,” Caspian said, his voice tight. “Take her where she wants to go.”
***
The ambulance doors had barely closed when the first flashes went off. They were waiting. A half-dozen paparazzi, cameras raised, capturing the frantic scene. How did they know?
The question barely had time to form in Caspian’s mind before it was drowned out by the blare of the siren.
Hours later, as he sat in a sterile hospital waiting room, his phone buzzed with notifications. A news alert, stark and sensational, lit up the screen.
ISOLDE FINCH IN CRITICAL CONDITION, RUSHED TO HOSPITAL BY DEVOTED CASPIAN HAWTHORNE.
The trap had been sprung. He had walked right into it.
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