Chapter 76

The morning promised to be beautiful, the sun cutting clean, bright lines across the expensive marble floor, but for Dr. Niran Williams, the day was consumed by a cold, internal rage. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stared at her bandaged hand, willing the fingers to move. The arm was sensitive, a dull ache throbbing in the shoulder, but it remained a traitorous dead weight. It refused to obey her brain. Where had I made a mistake? she thought, reviewing every surgical procedure, every prescribed drug. A formal neurological scan would give her the clearest answer, but she had wanted to play detective; she had wanted to rely on her own expertise and avoid exposing herself to any public eye, even if that meant a discreet medical staff. Now, the patient within her was losing.

“Doctor Williams, your breakfast is ready,” Evelyn’s voice echoed, quiet and steady, from the doorway.

Williams pushed herself up and moved to the shower. She washed herself alone, using only her right arm, navigating the slick marble with cautious efficiency. She felt stronger now, not because of physical recovery, but because she no longer wanted Evelyn’s pitying hands anywhere near her body.

A few minutes later, she moved stiffly to the dining area and sat down.

“Good morning, Williams.” Evelyn offered the greeting with a calculated neutrality, placing the doctor’s tea precisely where she could reach it.

“Good morning. Take my documents and bring them to my room. I’m going to be in my room all day.”

“Your arm… is it still not doing well?” Evelyn asked, her gaze drifting instinctively to the immobilized limb.

Williams felt a flash of white-hot resentment. Evelyn’s concern, however genuine, felt like an accusation. Evelyn tried to move closer, her hand lifting out of instinct, but Williams recoiled, pushing her away with a sharp movement of her shoulder.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“Hmm. You’re cranky this morning.” Evelyn didn’t back down. “Don’t you think it would be wise to bring in a competent doctor? One who would be discreet… I can call—”

“I am a trauma doctor; accidents are my field. My hands have saved lives you can’t even imagine,” Williams retorted, her voice hard. “But I guess you didn’t know that.”

“Even if you are a trauma specialist, you are now the patient, Williams. Another doctor would have clearer ideas and less emotional attachment.”

“How dare you. There is no one more competent than me in this field,” Williams spat, her jaw tight. The argument was no longer about medicine; it was about authority. Evelyn’s presence eroded her control.

“Williams, I am trying to help.”

“That’s enough. You did your job. Now, get yourself busy with something else.”

Williams became incandescent. For her, this was a direct assault on her competence. They implied she was a failure.

“With this kind of behavior, I understand why you are alone,” Evelyn sneered, her voice low and cutting.

Williams froze mid-movement. The implication—that she was unloved because of her character—was devastating. “Are you saying that to me?” Her outrage was a sudden, clean flame.

“You can’t always get everything by force. Does empathy mean anything to you? Or is that reserved only for the patients you can bill highly?”

Williams pushed the plate away with her left hand, sending crumbs across the polished table. “You can eat your lunch. Besides, I don’t need you anymore.”

“Williams,” Evelyn insisted, stepping closer.

“Go to your room and don’t come out again,” Williams ordered, her voice trembling with effort.

“Williams,” Evelyn repeated, planting her feet.

“I am talking to you!” Williams shouted, pushing against the table to stand up.

“Your arm.”

Williams stopped, frozen by the word. “What?”

“It’s trembling.”

Williams looked down. Her right arm, which had been immovable and numb for days, was seized by a rapid, uncontrollable tremor. It shook violently for just a few seconds, a startling testament to the raw neurological strain, and then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped—returning to its inert state.

“What happened?” Williams whispered, more to herself than to Evelyn. She searched her brain, her gaze fixed on the arm. Psychological, she concluded. The sudden, intense emotion caused by Evelyn’s defiant concern had temporarily overloaded and then silenced her nerves.

Joyfully, Evelyn moved closer, her concern now genuine, and took the inert hand. “I have an idea,” she said, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “to get your arm moving. Something that has nothing to do with surgery.”

Williams snatched her hand back, turning away with a fierce, wounded pride. “I don’t need to take suggestions from a little teacher from the Northwood Teachers College.”

These words landed like a physical slap. Evelyn remained silent as Williams returned to her room, leaving the door ajar. Williams sat on her bed and began to massage her own hand, trying to coax the nerves to life, but the feeling was gone again.

Evelyn found herself alone in the kitchen. She retreated to her small, adjacent room. There, she touched her belly and thought about Williams’ cruel words.

On the other side of the city, while driving, Yada stared intently at the passenger’s side, Kiya’s sleek, restricted tracing software humming beside her.

“She’s not answering the text, but the signal is active,” Kiya muttered, running a hand over her tired face.

Yada picked up her phone. “I’m calling her now. We’re going to confirm her location.”

She dialed. The ringtone on her end was sharp and grating.

Ring… Ring…

“Hello, Yada?” Evelyn’s voice, thick with recent sleep, was muffled.

“Evelyn! Thank God. I just wanted to ask you about the news—did you know Williams was shot by a journalist?” Yada’s voice was measured, designed to elicit a natural reaction.

“Yes, I know,” Evelyn replied, her voice regaining a cautious edge. “It’s sad news.”

As they spoke, Kiya’s software, now locked onto the active line, was rapidly triangulating the source. A new window snapped open, displaying GPS coordinates overlaid on a satellite map.

“Look at the screen, Yada,” Kiya whispered urgently.

Yada nodded, her eyes fixed on the map. She continued the facade. “Very sad. Can we do a quick video call? It’s been a while.”

“I… no, Yada, I can’t right now. I have to go wash up. Talk later.” Evelyn sounded visibly flustered by the video request. The line went dead.

Yada stared at Kiya. “She refused the video. Something is wrong.”

Kiya leaned over the coordinates, tracing the satellite image with her finger. “That’s a private residency. High security. Not an apartment building, Yada. It’s an estate. Look at the fencing, the private gate.”

They drove closer to the area, then parked.

“A private residency… with perimeter security. This is highly suggestive of a high-profile target. Williams’ mother, Kai Malee, owns a few of those outside the city limits. This fits the profile perfectly,” Kiya said.

The fear of detection was immediate.

“We’re too exposed here,” Yada said, snapping the laptop shut. “If this is a Williams property, they have counter-surveillance.”

They were in the car and speeding away within ninety seconds. Yada gripped the steering wheel, her mind churning. “What is really going on? Is she held captive, or is it something more personal?”

Kiya checked her rearview mirror. “If Romaric has vanished, we need to meet Malaya or Polo.”

“Polo,” Yada concluded, hitting the gas.

“Why Polo?”

“Because he manages the consequences. He is the director of crisis management. He knows everything about the hospital’s position. He is the only remaining link between the hospital’s public image and the hidden funds that Williams finances.”

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