Chapter 88

At the moment of her departure, the atmosphere in the villa was thick with anticipation. The internal staff was still absent, and only Makizal’s guards were posted outside, maintaining a silent, rigid perimeter. They would resume their activities inside only when Williams gave the command.

In front of her fragmented mirror, Williams had dressed in a pristine, sculpted white suit. She wanted to create a sensation, to emerge like a flawless dove and shame all those who had doubted her strength or sanity.

Except that the woman in the reflection did not look like a dove.

She looked like someone desperately pretending to be one.

Her gaze was sharp, too bright. Her shoulders were stiff.
The freshly healed hand, the hand Evelyn had washed, massaged, and worshiped, hung at her side like a secret.

Once ready, she took her minimal belongings and descended.

That was when she saw Evelyn, sitting calmly at the kitchen table with a half-finished cup of tea before her.

“Have a good day,” Evelyn’s voice was soft, laced with finality.

Williams did not answer. She continued walking, her focus rigid. She had already learned to distinguish reality from the tempting dream, and this one was part of the real world.

Makizal, freshly groomed and impeccably dressed, opened the vehicle door the instant he saw her silhouette. Williams paused, looking past him at the ranks of guards. They were stern, but their eyes held a mixture of relief and deep concern.

They were not surprised she had emerged with her hand healed, but they were stunned by her physical change. Evelyn’s nourishing meals had given her a healthy, almost soft glow that contradicted her usual severity.

She crossed the courtyard like a queen in exile returning for her crown and slipped into the car without a word.

“Destroy all the evidence,” she said once inside, staring ahead.

“Alright.” He reached for his earpiece to transmit the order.

“Only one agent,” she added, her voice chillingly precise. “A female. And no one touches Hazel.”

Makizal’s hand froze near the earpiece.

“At least, until nightfall,” she added again.

He accepted that with a small bow.

Silence descended again. Makizal looked out the window, composure unwavering, masking the alarm at her contradictory orders.

The vehicle reached the Niran Kai hospital complex. Makizal rushed to open the door for her.

Dr. Niran Williams stepped out, poised and calculating, her white attire glowing under the hospital lights.

People stopped walking.
Some whispered.
Some simply stared.

The fallen angel had returned to the throne she had nearly died on.

She walked through the hall with slow, controlled elegance, each breath measured. Despite the medical hustle, she stopped at the reception desk, deliberately breaking protocol.

“Doctor Williams, we’re happy to see you again.” The nurses urchered.

“Thank you.” She smiled, a rare, unsettling gesture, before spotting a familiar name badge lying on the counter.

“Dr. Marz is dead,” the nurse whispered.

“I know. May I?” Williams gestured for the badge.

A nervous nurse started to pin it onto Williams’s white suit, but Makizal stepped forward to intervene. To his astonishment, Williams motioned for him not to interfere. The nurse pinned the badge, Dr. Marz, next to the pin bearing her own name.

“Thank you,” Williams said, the white plastic stark against her white suit, before walking away.

In her pristine oval office, she had barely settled into her chair when Malaya entered, eyes wide with relief and surprise.

“Dr. Williams, welcome back.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“I couldn’t find a replacement.”

Before she could respond, an employee slipped in.

“Madam, journalists are outside requesting a statement.”

“You are?”

“Piboun from the Legal Department. Mr. Polo wants to know if he should address them in your place to avoid a conference.”

“No. Let three journalists in,” Williams said.

“Right now?”

“Yes. Makizal, go see.” She turned to Malaya.

“Madam, should I leave you alone?” Makizal asked.

“It’s fine.”

Malaya looked at her in surprise before quickly tidying the immaculate desk.

A few minutes later, three journalists entered, guarded by three agents with visible weapons.

Williams rested her hands on her desk, posture calm, almost gracious.

The first journalist began. “Dr. Niran williams, how are you handling these moments?”

“First of all…” Williams gave a warm, detailed summary of the night before the incident, setting a gentle, disarming tone. Malaya observed her, her gaze briefly crossing Makizal’s, who wore a stern, carefully constructed expression.

The second journalist pressed, “Dr. Niran, how do you feel? Could you shed some light on what you plan to do next? We learned that the journalist has been arrested.”

Williams paused, recalling Evelyn’s advice. Often, it is through empathy that one gets what they want most.

She looked up, her gaze steady and softened. “If I told you this hasn’t affected me physically or psychologically, I would be lying.” She smiled. “He used me to project the failures of his life. Nevertheless, I do not hold a grudge against him, but this act cannot go unpunished. That is why I am letting justice do what needs to be done.”

Another journalist asked, “Is it true that he lost his job shortly after an article about you was published?”

Williams leaned back, her composure absolute. Malaya and Makizal held their breath, expecting an eruption of defensive anger.

But Williams had an answer prepared, laced with fatalistic philosophical calm. “Sometimes events coincide. During my years of service, I have seen people lament being the cause of absurd coincidences. Unfortunately, he lost his job after releasing an article about me. The question is not the coincidence, but how he handled it.”

The journalists nodded, stunned by her measured, almost compassionate response.

Then one of them spotted the Marz badge. “And who is that?”

“While I was absent, we lost a renowned doctor, Doctor Marz.”

Williams answered brilliantly, controlling the narrative. Once the journalists left, the videos were broadcast everywhere. Miss Kai and everyone else saw them. What caught their attention was Williams’s unusually soft look and her softened tone, a calculated mask of humanity.

Left alone. She requested her We Kids Project file. Malaya ran to retrieve it. She hurried to place it on the desk, but Williams extended her hand unexpectedly. Malaya, confused by the gesture, carefully placed the document into her hand.

And then—

“Malaya?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Before you leave, did Rosa give you the documents she was working on?”

Malaya hesitated.

“No. She never said anything.”

Williams looked at her, then added, “Rosa took early retirement. If I tell you this, it is because you are now my principal secretary. And it is important that you know the changes happening in the block. Rosa was suffering from cancer, which she had not told anyone about. She was endangering her life by working here.” Williams handed her a document, Rosa’s medical file. “The hospital did not fire her. We took charge of her care here. A luxury enjoyed by everyone who works at Niran Kai.”

“Thank you, Madam.” Malaya was genuinely touched by this apparent kindness.

“And next time, when you have a vacation coming up soon, inform Human Resources. They will find you a replacement. That is how things are done here.”

Malaya nodded and left to archive the files; a seed of doubt and respect was planted in her mind. So that was why Rosa had been sidelined, and not because she had made a mistake.

Then Makizal reentered. The atmosphere was tense.

“Madam, what about Evelyn? Are we eliminating her tonight?”

Williams blinked slowly.

“We shouldn’t waste time,” he insisted.

Silence.

Tension tightened.

Yada was neutralized. Emilio imprisoned. Adeline fired. Romaric vanished.

Only Evelyn remained. She only had to say the word, and Makizal would carry it out. But the truth was agonizing. She had grown reliant on torturing Evelyn, dissecting her psychology, tasting her good dishes, and simply enjoying her presence.

“I don’t know,” Williams whispered. “Should we kill her?”

Makizal inhaled deeply.

“Madam, there is something I haven’t told you.”

“What is it?”

He signaled an agent, who brought a new document folder and placed it in front of her.

“Well, since Evelyn was the one taking care of you…” Williams’s head snapped up. He knew. “I did not want to stress you out, so I had to wait to show you this. In fact…” He began showing Williams the documents.

The photos fell onto her desk.

Evelyn as a child.
Evelyn as a teenager.
Evelyn under a different name.
A different life.
Esther Dara.

“We did not find a link with Dr. Marz, but it is curious.” He continued speaking, but his voice blurred into a low vibration.

Williams picked up the photographs one by one. She saw the picture of Evelyn’s youth, then the name: Esther Dara. The word began to echo in her head, a bell tolling from a distant past.

The flash returned, not blurry but crystal clear. The girl she had looked at, the day her mother left the principal’s office. The day her friend told her to hurry up because Esther had read her letter. The horrifying realization slammed into the fragile wall of her reconstructed memory.

She began to tremble. Her carefully constructed white world shuddered.

“Madam, are you okay?” Makizal asked, alarmed.

Williams did not answer. She got up, the chair scraping loudly across the floor, and began walking rapidly toward the parking lot.

Blood began to flow, thick and warm, from her nose, but she barely noticed the physical rupture.

“Madam, Madam!” Makizal followed, but Williams suddenly accelerated, driven by primal panic. The name Esther Dara resonated, shattering the foundations of her identity.

Malaya saw the scene, Williams, flying past, Makizal chasing, the blood. She rushed into Williams’s office and saw the file on the desk.

“What is going on?”

Williams reached the parking lot. Makizal, now genuinely fearful, approached one of her armored cars and reached to open the door. But Williams suddenly turned like a fury, eyes wide and unseeing, snatched his gun from his waistband, and pointed it at him.

“Madam Williams, I did not want to disappoint—”

He had barely finished his desperate sentence when Williams fired. The sound was deafening, echoing off the concrete pillars. Makizal staggered, shot in the stomach. She scrambled into her car and sped toward her home, narrowly missing several terrified pedestrians.

At the hospital, the sound of the gunshot echoed like a death knell. Security personnel and Malaya ran toward the chaos. Makizal, hit and bleeding, was quickly transported to the operating theater. He did not have time to utter a single, damning word before losing consciousness.

Malaya, witnessing the utter madness, ran to Polo to inform him of the catastrophic, unbelievable truth.

Dr. Williams had shot Makizal.

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