At 2:00 AM, the estate was a tomb. The “Founders’ Gala” guests had long departed, leaving behind the scent of stale champagne and desperation.
Victoria opened the servants’ entrance in the kitchen. A figure in a dark hoodie slipped inside, carrying a medical bag.
“If Beatrice catches me,” Dr. Maya Khan whispered, pulling down her hood, “she will scream to the police that I’m trespassing.”
“Beatrice is passed out in the West Wing,” Victoria replied, leading her quickly toward the stairs. “We don’t have much time.”
In the Master Suite, Maya worked with clinical efficiency. She checked Alistair’s pupil dilation, tested his reflexes, and reviewed the toxicology report Victoria had secretly compiled.
“The Digitalis didn’t sever the nerves,” Maya said, shining a penlight into Alistair’s eyes–the same test Cross had performed, but with kindness instead of malice. “It just put them to sleep. His neural pathways are firing. He’s like a rusty engine.”
“Can he recover?” Victoria asked.
“Motor control?” Maya packed her bag. “Maybe. But forcing those muscles to wake up after months of atrophy and chemical suppression… it’s going to be agonizing. It will feel like fire in every nerve ending.”
She looked down at Alistair. “Do you want to proceed, Alistair? It will hurt more than dying.”
Alistair didn’t hesitate. He blinked twice. *Yes.*