Chapter 40

The morning rose heavy and bruised, like the second-to-last day before an inevitable reckoning.

Evelyn had already resumed her duties at the orphanage. Her steps were softer, almost resigned. She had decided to entrust the embryo’s future to the Mayeurs. As for Polo, he knew the window was not just closing, it was slammed shut. He needed Romaric to accelerate the investigation on Emilio’s accomplices, because the fracture between Emilio and Williams had widened into something deep, unstable, and irreparable.

Miss Kai was paralyzed. She had dismissed Adeline but could not extinguish the fiery doubt the psychiatrist had ignited, nor ignore the simple piece of paper that promised to clarify everything if she could only face the truth.

Malaya, meanwhile, had activated Plan B. Whatever that meant, that day was the moment she intended to move.

Kannika, elsewhere, was resolute, ready to advance her specific case.

And then there was Williams.

She sat in her pristine office, tailored suit hugging her silhouette, hair cascading neatly over her shoulders. She looked carved from resolve itself. She was ready to face the world. The countdown had begun, and Adeline was the source of its initiation.

Before arriving, Williams had received the brief from her house staff, a clinical report of her own collapse. She learned how Romaric had carried her unconscious body to bed, how she was covered without having performed her nightly mantra. She was a doctor. She instantly understood that something had been in the glass. But she uttered no accusation. Instead, she retreated into her ensuite, pulled a sterile syringe from a discreet medical tool drawer, drew a precise sample of her own blood, and dispatched it silently to the hospital laboratory.

She was the fox, silent and deadly, and she had already activated a ticking time bomb the moment her eyes opened.

Malaya burst into her office with the patronizing cheerfulness of someone masking nerves.

“Madam, your tea.”

Williams’ gaze fell on the tea cup Malaya placed on the desk, the porcelain gleaming in the morning light. The sight triggered a brief, chilling flicker of memory, the spilling water, the chaotic shattering of glass, the metallic taste of rage. But she banished it instantly.

Malaya didn’t notice. She quickly moved to a towering stack of documents. “Madam, here is your file. The journalists will arrive at noon for the interview.”

Williams ignored the tea, took the file, and slowly flipped through the pages. The surgery was finally complete. Tonight, she was expected at the family dinner.

“Malaya,” she finally said, eyes still on the documents, “you’re back with us. What were you suffering from?”

“Malaria, Madam.”

Williams looked up, not believing, not disbelieving, simply observing, like she did with complicated patients.

Then she closed the folder and handed it back.

“Organize my interventions in chronological order. And launch the We Kids Project after this operation. It’s time. Especially with a child in distress under our roof.”

“Understood, Madam. And… Mr. Richardson has requested to meet you again. He has been insisting for quite some time.”

Williams remained silent, her pen moving with cold precision as she signed other papers. Malaya watched her sign documents with that crisp, flawless precision and wondered. Why had Williams never shown affection to anyone? Behind each faint smile, there was only professionalism.

No partner.
No touch.
No vulnerability.

Would this brilliant, terrifying woman ever wear a ring? Would she ever let anyone get close enough to…
touch her?
undress her?
weaken her?

It was impossible to imagine Williams surrendered in anyone’s arms. Impossible.

Williams leaned back in her luxurious leather chair, fixing Malaya with her gaze. “If he needs support, refer him to another doctor or an assistant. As for me, I will see him after the interview.”

Malaya bowed her head.

“Understood, Madam.”

Williams rose, moving toward the hospital lab. Today was about cleanup and control: sign the final papers, prepare for the media, and leave. But first, she had to retrieve her results.

Across the building, Polo sat in Emilio’s office.

Romaric was already there.

“I received your message, Mr. Polo,” Romaric said.

“I want to know where we stand. Time is running. Faster than we expected.” Polo paced the expensive carpet.

Romaric shoved a stack of documents across the desk. “Here you go. I have already managed to get 20 people to sign waivers from the 35 names Mr. Emilio provided. We will no longer have to deal with them.”

Polo seized the documents, quickly assessing the damage control, then placed a hand on his forehead. “But what about the others?”

“I am still working on it,” Romaric replied.

“What about Evelyn?” Emilio asked Polo.

Polo looked sharply at Emilio. “I am convinced she will keep this child.” He then stared at Romaric. “We are in deep trouble.”

Regret pressed into Polo’s shoulders. He regretted playing savior. His mistake wasn’t the solution, but his failure to anticipate the short timeline and the complication from Evelyn’s resolve. Had she accepted the abortion, he could have quietly erased the hospital’s mistake. But now, he knew Williams’ gaze at their last meeting was damning. At the end of this media affair, he would be dead.

“Did Williams talk about this?” Polo asked Romaric.

Romaric remembered the shattered glass and the violent tension of the night before. He swallowed. “No.” Williams had been strangely silent this morning.

Emilio stood up, frustrated. “Mr. Marz—I’ve written to him since that day, but he is not responding. I think he is enjoying his vacation.”

“Tell him the case is settled,” Romaric interjected, his voice firm. “Tell him that regarding the resounding case, Williams needs his intervention. I think he is keeping a low profile, waiting to see who survives.”

Polo looked at Romaric and nodded, sealing the pact. They were now three men, crooked politicians plotting a desperate coup d’état against fate and against Williams.

After Polo and Romaric left, Emilio stared sadly at a crumpled piece of paper on his desk. Since this incident, he had been consumed by depression, with no one to confide in. His one attempt, with Malaya, had been disastrous. He recalled Williams’ cruel words: “You have a position that many are fighting to access.” The phrase broke his heart. Even if his connection to Williams had secured the position, he was brilliant. He had worked tirelessly to become an associate professor and a renowned doctor. But the separation between his professional and personal life was absolute, and he had failed in one.

At this particular time, Adeline was across the city, seeking refuge and advice from her former professor and mentor.

Mr. Iram, seeing Adeline, her face still bore the bruises and shadows of last night, listened with grave intensity as she recounted her suspicions and the terrifying details of the session. He was a man of vast experience, and his perspective immediately diverged from hers.

“Although I would be tempted to think like you, it is impossible to conclude a form of dissociation of any kind,” he stated, standing and walking toward the window. “You absolutely need those documents.”

Adeline listened, desperate. “If that were the case,” she asked, curious and fearful, “is it serious?”

The professor remained silent for a moment, then turned. “War Survivor Syndrome is a psychological phenomenon where individuals feel guilt, remorse, and a sense of powerlessness for having survived a traumatic event, a war, while others perished.” He looked at Adeline. “But your patient was abused by classmates. This person survived a war where he or she was alone. So, what remorse could this person possibly feel?”

Adeline bit her lip. It made sense.

“And as for Mirror Therapy,” he continued, returning to the table. “It is a rehabilitation technique that uses the reflection of a healthy limb to create the illusion that the affected limb is moving normally. You are comparing it to your patient’s profound mental suffering, and that is what’s serious.”

“Suppose it’s an unofficial, extreme method that was used.”

“Adeline, you are supposing that your patient is living in the illusion of a life that is not real. If that were the case, hypothetically, after so many years, taking her out of it would be killing her.”

She froze.

“W-what?”

“Imagine a patient who had serious surgery suddenly waking up mid-surgery without anesthesia. They will become instantly aware of their condition and could self-destruct from the unbearable pain. But again, we are operating only on assumptions.”

Adeline stood, pacing the room. She knew she had a unique case and that the asylum Williams attended had used unorthodox methods. But her professor was right. Without Williams’ files and communication from that facility, she had nothing but a violent assumption. One thing was certain: she seemed to be the only person who saw the enormous explosion that the ticking time bomb buried in Williams was about to produce.

But she had no proof.

As she prepared to leave, the professor grabbed her arm gently, his face grim. “Listen, I know you never suspect anything for nothing. You were my best and most perceptive student. But if this patient is the cause of those bruises…”

Adeline cut him off. “Sir, please don’t tell me to keep my distance.”

“No. Listen to me. Hide. Change houses, change your number. Hide.”

Adeline stared, genuinely surprised. “Why do that?”

“As a precaution.” The professor lowered his voice. “You put something in the water. If this person wakes up, struggles to remember the violent episode, and discovers that he or she was drugged, the consequences will not please you.”

Adeline’s brilliant mind, so focused on the grand diagnosis, had failed to account for this critical, immediate detail. Williams was a meticulous doctor. Now truly worried, she thanked her professor and left.

If Miss Kai didn’t open her eyes and decide to take a desperate leap back into the past, Adeline knew it was over for Williams. But above all, it was over for Adeline herself if she didn’t find support and protection.

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