Zara was already there when he arrived, seated in a secluded booth at the back of the cafe. She looked like a coiled spring, her posture rigid, her coffee untouched. The hatred radiating from her was a palpable force.
Caspian slid into the seat opposite her, stripped of his usual armor of arrogance. He felt haggard, exposed. “Thank you for coming.”
“Don’t thank me,” she snapped, her voice a low hiss. “I’m not here for you. I’m here because you used my patient’s health as a password.” Her eyes, dark and furious, drilled into him. “Before you say a word, let’s be clear. You abandoned Lyra. You publicly humiliated her. The stress you’ve put her under is a direct threat to her high-risk pregnancy. Whatever you think you’re doing now, it will never erase that.”
He didn’t flinch. He deserved every word. “I know.”
His quiet agreement seemed to momentarily unbalance her. He didn’t argue, didn’t defend himself. He simply reached into his briefcase, pulled out a slim tablet, and placed it on the table between them.
“This is why I called,” he said.
He tapped the screen. The video began to play without sound. It was raw security footage, time-stamped, from a camera in the hospital corridor. It showed Isolde, looking perfectly healthy, speaking animatedly with a man. Daniel Corbin.
“That’s her accomplice,” Caspian narrated, his voice a dead monotone. “He arrives at 14:02.”
Zara leaned forward, her medical and analytical mind instantly engaged. She watched as Corbin handed Isolde a small, weighted object. She saw them rehearse the motion, the swing, the fall. She saw Isolde carefully muss her own hair, tear the sleeve of her gown.
Then, she watched as Corbin struck the wall beside her head, the impact just out of frame, before dropping to the floor. She saw Isolde scream, a silent, calculated performance for the cameras that would soon be there.
Zara’s expression shifted. The pure, white-hot hatred for Caspian drained away, replaced by something colder, sharper. It was the focused fury of a physician witnessing a monstrous perversion of sickness and vulnerability. The proof was absolute. It was undeniable.
“That man,” Zara breathed, her eyes locked on the screen. “Corbin. I saw him at the hospital. He was introduced as Dr. Finch’s nephew.”
Caspian nodded. “He is.”
He stopped the video. The silence in the booth was heavy, broken only by the distant clatter of the cafe.
“I was blind,” Caspian said, finally meeting her gaze. The confession was gravel in his throat. “I was arrogant, and I wanted to be a hero for a dying woman. I let her turn me into a monster. I did this to Lyra.”
He paused, the shame a physical weight. “My only motivation now is to make this right. I will see Isolde pay for every lie, for every second of pain she has caused. This isn’t about my reputation. This is about atonement.”
For the first time since he’d met her, Zara Ali looked at him and saw something other than a villain. She saw a broken man holding the weapon that could save them all.
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