Isolde was resting, a light sedative supposedly helping her “cope with the trauma.” Caspian watched the steady, fake rise and fall of her chest for a moment before turning to the nurse.
“I need some air,” he said, his voice strained. “This is all… a lot.”
The nurse gave him a sympathetic nod. “Of course, Mr. Hawthorne. Take all the time you need.”
He walked out of the ward, his posture that of a man burdened by grief. But the moment he turned the corner, his shoulders straightened. His pace became brisk, purposeful. He wasn’t heading for the exit. He was heading for the hospital’s administrative wing.
Shadows stretched long in the quiet, sterile corridors. He found the security office, just as the hospital schematic on his phone had indicated. The door was locked. A small plaque read: J. Miller, Night Supervisor.
He knocked. After a moment, the door opened a crack, and a tired-looking man in a rumpled uniform peered out. “Can I help you?”
“Caspian Hawthorne,” he said, not offering a hand, just letting the name hang in the air. “I need to see the footage from the main entrance about an hour ago.”
The guard’s eyes widened slightly in recognition, then narrowed with professional caution. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t give anyone access to the archives without a formal request from administration or a police warrant.”
Caspian didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten. He applied pressure, cold and immense.
“My fiancée was just assaulted on your property,” Caspian said, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous calm. “A significant security lapse that happened in full view of the media. The Hawthorne family has donated over twenty million dollars to this hospital’s endowment fund in the last decade.”
He paused, letting the statement land.
“I am here,” he continued, “as a representative of `Hawthorne Industries` to review the events that led to this lapse. I need to ensure that our interests—and the safety of those connected to us—are being properly protected by this institution. Or do I need to call my grandmother and have her discuss the future of our patronage with your hospital director?”
The guard paled. He was a man who understood chain of command, and Caspian had just invoked a power far beyond his pay grade. The choice was simple: stonewall a very powerful, very angry billionaire, or log a minor breach of protocol to avoid a major career catastrophe.
He swallowed hard. “One moment, sir.”
The guard disappeared back into the room. Caspian heard the clacking of a keyboard. A few seconds later, the door swung fully open.
“We’re logging this as an official security review at the request of a primary benefactor,” the guard said, his voice now deferential. “The station is yours, Mr. Hawthorne.”
Caspian stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The air was cool, filled with the low hum of electronics. Banks of monitors glowed in the dim light, a hundred unblinking eyes watching over the hospital.
He had the key. Now he just had to find the lock.
About the Author
