Chapter 6
The private examination room in the West Wing was colder than the rest of the estate, smelling sharply of antiseptic and old paper. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn tight against the morning light, casting long shadows across the examining table where the medical supplies rested. Dr. Aris clicked his silver pen shut and laid the freshly printed laboratory requisition form on the metal tray between us. The numbers staring up from the black-and-white printout were unmistakable: heavy barbiturate metabolites, maintained at a steady, suppressive threshold that no ordinary post-stroke recovery protocol could ever justify.
"The blood panels confirm what you suspected from the pharmacy logs," Dr. Aris whispered, his eyes fixed on the door as if expecting Julian to walk through the wood at any second. "The levels in his bloodstream are three times higher than the therapeutic maximum. He hasn't been sleeping off a stroke for three years, Nurse. He has been systematically poisoned into silence."
"Then we have to get him off the estate," I said, sliding the toxicology report into the pocket of my cardigan alongside the blue receipts. "If Julian realizes we have the actual lab numbers, he won't just burn paper next time. We need an independent medical transport, and we need it before the morning board meeting."
"You don't understand the reach Julian has," Dr. Aris replied, shaking his head slowly as he packed his diagnostic instruments back into his leather bag. "The board is entirely under his financial thumb. Every security guard on these grounds reports directly to his private office. If we try to move the patient out through the gates without official family authorization, we'll be stopped before we reach the main drive, and the records will be confiscated and destroyed."
The heavy oak door of the examination room clicked open with a soft, metallic scrape. We both whipped our heads around. Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the hallway, was the elderly man himself. He wore his dark wool robe draped loosely over his frail shoulders, his gray hair uncombed and his pale face lined with deep, ancient wrinkles. He was gripping the rubber hand-rims of his wheelchair with both hands, his knuckles white with exertion, having propelled himself down the long corridor from his private sleeping quarters entirely unaided.
"No more waiting," the elderly man said. His voice was hoarse from three years of disuse, scraping across the quiet room like dry autumn leaves, but every syllable was sharp, deliberate, and entirely lucid. He looked directly at Dr. Aris, his deep-set eyes flashing with the fierce authority of a man who had built the very empire Julian was now trying to steal. "The boy thinks he owns the house because he locked the doors. Open them."
May you like
Dr. Aris stared at him in utter disbelief, his mouth opening slightly as he watched his supposed catatonic patient sit completely upright, breathing steadily without assistance. The medical certainty of the last three years collapsed in a single moment, leaving only the raw, undeniable reality of a mind waking up to reclaim its world.
"Get your bag, Doctor," I said softly, stepping past the physician to place my hand gently over the elderly man's rigid knuckles on the wheelchair rim. "Now we can begin."
