The cursor blinked on Zara Ali’s screen, a steady, rhythmic pulse in the quiet of her home office. Before her was the digital facade of Dr. Alistair Finch. Impeccable credentials. Glowing testimonials. A spotless public record linked to The Finch Foundation.
It was too clean. It felt scrubbed.
Zara leaned back, the leather of her chair groaning in protest. In her world, a doctor with a high-profile, critically ill patient and zero digital scuffs was a ghost. A fabrication. She ran his name through a secure physician’s network, a privilege of her license. Again, nothing. No sanctions, no board inquiries, no whispers of malpractice. It was a wall of polished professionalism, and Zara felt a familiar frustration building in her chest.
She was missing something.
***
At the Hawthorne estate, shadows stretched long across the manicured lawns. Caspian watched Isolde across the sitting room, the crystal glass in his hand cool against his skin. He was looking at her, truly looking, for the first time in months. The memory of his grandmother’s voice, sharp with disappointment, was a constant echo in his mind.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I was just thinking about that winter in Vail,” he said, his tone casual, almost nostalgic. “The one where you broke your arm on the slopes. You were so brave about it.”
Isolde, who had been scrolling through her phone, froze. Her smile was a fraction too slow, a shade too bright. “Oh, that,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Such a silly memory.”
She didn’t correct him. She didn’t mention Aspen, the name she had used just last week. She simply changed the subject, asking about a charity gala with a brittle cheerfulness that set his teeth on edge.
The lie was no longer a suspicion. It was a fact, sitting cold and heavy in the space between them. He had caught her, and she knew it.
***
A little later, Isolde pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I feel so dizzy all of a sudden,” she murmured, her voice faint. She swayed slightly, reaching out to brace herself on the arm of the sofa.
Caspian watched, his expression carefully neutral. He felt nothing. No rush of concern, no protective urge. Only a cold, clinical observation.
“And this pain…” she continued, a hand fluttering to her side. “It’s so sharp. It comes and goes.”
He saw the performance for what it was. A desperate pivot. A tactic to reclaim his attention, to pull him back into the familiar dance of her fragility and his strength. He had been her savior for so long. She was reminding him of his role.
But the stage felt different now. The lighting was harsh. He could see all the seams.
***
Zara closed the professional databases and opened a secure messaging app. She typed a message to Dr. Anya Sharma, her former mentor and the head of oncology at University Hospital. They hadn’t spoken in months, but Anya valued discretion above all else.
Anya, I need an off-the-record opinion on a colleague. Dr. Alistair Finch.
The reply came back minutes later. *Zara. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Why?
He’s treating a friend’s… family member. High profile case. His record is too perfect.
There was a long pause. Zara held her breath.
There were rumors, years ago, Anya typed. Nothing ever stuck. But he was involved in a nasty lawsuit. Look in the public court records. Not the medical boards. Sometimes that’s where the ghosts hide.
A new direction. A thread to pull.
Zara typed a quick thank you and closed the app. The hunt was on.
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