Chapter 7: Fever and the Locked Door
By mid-morning, the master suite had turned into a suffocating cage of silence and anxiety. I had locked the heavy oak door just as Julian instructed, but the cold safety of isolation vanished the moment the toddler stirred in the vintage armchair, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural heat. Her breathing was shallow, and when I pressed my palm against her forehead, her skin burned with a sudden, spiking fever that shook her small frame beneath the yellow blanket. Panic, sharp and primal, overrode every survival instinct and warning I had rehearsed through the predawn hours. I rushed to the heavy door, throwing my weight against it and pounding the brass handle until my knuckles throbbed. "Julian!" I cried out, the sound echoing down the paneled hallway outside. "Open the door! She's burning up!" Within seconds, the heavy brass lock clicked and turned from the outside, the door swinging open to reveal Julian standing there, his face drained of all color and suspicion. He didn't ask questions; he took one look at the toddler's flushed face and dropped instantly into action, crossing the room in three long strides to scoop her into his arms. "I've already called Dr. Vance," Julian said, his voice stripped of every defensive edge, leaving only raw, desperate urgency. "He's our family physician, but he's kept our secrets for thirty years. He's on his way." Within twenty minutes, an elderly doctor with a worn leather bag arrived, moving through the grand bedroom with quiet efficiency. He administered a mild pediatric antipyretic, monitored the child's pulse until her breathing leveled out into a peaceful, cooling sleep, and packed his instruments. As Julian walked him toward the private hallway, Dr. Vance paused near the threshold, casting a grave look back at me. "You can't keep running from the trustees, Mr. Vance," the doctor said quietly, his voice carrying clearly into the room. "They know someone is inside the west wing. If you want to protect this child, you need to leave this house before sunset—because your mother's legal team isn't sending lawyers next time. They're sending marshals."
