Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Stone Hallway
The stiffness in my ribs felt like a cage of dry thorns every time I tried to draw a full breath. The guest suite was large, walled in dark wainscoting and heavy velvet drapes that shut out the late morning glare. I pushed myself up slowly, the blanket sliding down my lap, and swung my feet over the edge of the mattress. The floorboards were cool against my bare soles. Rafael had not moved far; he stood near the arched doorway, his black long-sleeve shirt rolled up at the forearms, revealing the sharp, dark ink winding down his skin toward his wrist.
"You shouldn't be moving," Rafael said, his voice dropping into that low, even register that brooked no argument.
"I've spent enough time horizontal," I muttered, my hand pressing instinctively against the white bandage wrapped tightly around my torso. The throbbing was dull now, a heavy bruise rather than a hot iron, but the reminder of the bullet was sharp enough.
Before Rafael could reply, the heavy oak door creaked open a fraction further. Isabetta stood in the threshold, her silver-gray hair coiled into the same immaculate updo, wearing a structured black blazer that looked entirely too formal for a private corridor. She held a silver tray bearing a crystal glass of iced water and a small porcelain dish. Her dark eyes swept over me, taking in the pale skin and the tense set of my shoulders, before she stepped into the room and set the tray down on the bedside table.
"You have a stubborn streak, Wren," Isabetta said, her tone smooth, measured, and devoid of warmth, yet carrying a strange undercurrent of assessment. "Most people who take a bullet for my threshold spend more than a few hours unconscious before trying to walk across the room."
"I wasn't trying to save the threshold," I said, my voice dry as I reached for the glass of water. My fingers trembled slightly against the crystal. "I was saving myself. And the paperwork in my bag."
Isabetta crossed her arms, her fingers resting against the dark fabric of her blazer. "Let us talk about that paperwork. Toby's files. You carried them out of the clinic as if they were made of gold leaf. Why?"
I took a slow sip of the water, letting the cold liquid soothe my parched throat before looking straight back at her. "Because Toby didn't just walk out of the research wing. He was pushed out. The clinical trial data we were compiling for the third-phase trials had inflated survival numbers, altered by twenty percent across every demographic. When Toby tried to log the discrepancy with the oversight board, his access was revoked within the hour. He gave me those physical ledgers the night before he disappeared."
Rafael stepped closer, his dark gaze narrowing. "And you think someone inside this estate had a hand in altering those trials?"
"I know the financial backing for that wing comes through a shell company registered in this county," I said, my voice steadying despite the ache in my chest. "A shell company with direct ties to Isabetta's administrative accounts."
Isabetta didn't flinch. Her expression remained an unreadable mask of iron composure, though a muscle ticked briefly along her jawline. "You accuse my household administration of financial fraud while you sit in my guest suite recovering from a gunshot wound?"
"I'm not accusing you," I said, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "I'm telling you why someone tried to put a hole through my chest in the clinic parking lot. If those files get out, the trial collapses, the grant money vanishes, and a lot of very powerful people lose everything they've built."
Rafael looked between Isabetta and me, his hand resting on the back of the leather chair. The tension in the room thickened until the air felt heavy, saturated with unspoken accusations and shared risk.
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"She keeps the files," Rafael said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He looked directly at Isabetta. "We don't hand them over to local authorities, and we don't bury them. Wren stays right here in the estate where we can watch the perimeters, and we go through every ledger line tonight."
Isabetta stared at her son for a long, unbroken moment, the silence stretching between them in a quiet battle of wills. Finally, she gave a slow, measured nod. "Very well. But if the perimeter is breached again, Rafael, the files go into the incinerator. Do we understand each other?"
