The air in Eleanora Hawthorne’s study was thick with the scent of old leather and brewing strategy. Shadows stretched from the towering bookshelves, laying dark stripes across the Persian rug where Caspian, his grandmother, and Zara Ali sat in a tense triangle.
“She is terrified,” Zara said, her voice the calm, clinical center of the storm. “Isolde threatened her children. That is not a fear you can simply reason away.”
Caspian’s jaw was a knot of steel. He watched Zara, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the very picture of professional composure. She spoke of the burner phone as a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting them to the truth, and every word was a testament to his own failure. He should have been the one to see. He should have been the one to protect.
Eleanora steepled her fingers, her gaze sharp as faceted ice. “Then reason is the wrong tool. We are not convincing a juror, Dr. Ali. We are deprogramming a hostage.” She turned that piercing gaze from Zara to Caspian. “You will handle the witness, Doctor. Exclusively. Your connection as a medical professional is our only viable entry point. Do not fail.”
The dismissal was absolute.
Eleanora then fixed on her grandson. “Caspian, your role is twofold. First, you will provide Dr. Ali with any and all logistical support she requires. Second, and more importantly, you will continue to play the part of Isolde’s devoted fool. Your performance must be flawless.”
A hot surge of frustration rose in Caspian’s throat. “Grandmother, I can do more. Let me go with Zara. Let me talk to her.” Let me do something to wash this filth from my soul.
“No,” Eleanora said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Your presence would be an intimidation, not a comfort. You are a Hawthorne. To that woman, you represent the same power and reach she fears in Isolde. Your penance is not to play the hero, Caspian. It is to endure the humiliation of the role you chose. It is a bitter pill, I know. Swallow it.”
He swallowed. The pill was ash and acid in his throat. He was a weapon to be kept in its sheath. A bank account. A mask.
Zara spoke, her focus pulling the room back to the mission. “I won’t push her,” she said, looking at Eleanora but speaking for Caspian’s benefit as well. “I’m arranging a meeting on neutral ground. I will not ask for a statement. I will not ask for her help. I will simply listen.”
She paused, her eyes meeting Caspian’s for a brief, unreadable moment.
“The goal is not to extract information,” Zara stated, her voice quiet but firm. “It is to build a foundation of trust. That is the only strategy that will work.”
Eleanora gave a single, sharp nod of approval. The war council was adjourned.
Caspian watched Zara leave, the weight of his uselessness pressing down on him. He was a king in his own empire, reduced to a pawn in the battle for his own life.
He looked at his hands. They were empty.
In the city, Zara Ali sat in her car, the burner phone silent on the passenger seat. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She took one deep, steadying breath, her empathy hardening into a surgeon’s resolve.
Then she drove.
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