CH.6

ELISE

Morning light streams through the small window in my room, creating a bright patch on the dull floor.

After six weeks in Pinewood Wellness Center, they finally moved me to a room with a window.

Dr. Mercer called it a reward for "better behavior."

The view isn't much, just a small courtyard with a few thin trees, but after so long in windowless rooms, it feels like a gift.

I sit on my bed, watching dust float in the sunlight.

My new medicine makes everything feel distant, like I'm watching my life through foggy glass. It's hard to think, hard to remember why I need to fight.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Nurse Wagner steps inside. She moves quietly, without the coldness the others have.

"Good morning, Elise. How are we feeling today?" She places a small paper cup with my pills on the table.

"We feel... medicated," I mutter with a weak smile.

Her lips twitch slightly, the closest thing to sympathy I've seen in this place. "Dr. Mercer says you're doing better. That's progress."

"I'm learning the rules," I reply, picking up the cup. One white, one blue, one pink. Fewer than before.

"Dosage change?" I ask.

"Dr. Mercer thinks you're ready for a lower dose." She checks her tablet. "Your last few checkups were good."

I swallow the pills, then open my mouth so she can see. The routine. The performance I've mastered. Smile. Take the pills. Pretend to be thankful.

"You have art therapy at ten. Then free time before lunch."

Art therapy blurs past: soft colors instead of the reds and blacks I once used.

The therapist smiles, pleased with my "calm" choices.

I smile back, playing my role.

During free time, I sit near the nurses' station, pretending to read while listening carefully.

"Mrs. Westfield seems much better," Dr. Mercer's voice drifts over. "Her delusions are fading."

"Her husband will be relieved," replies Dr. Mage, the facility director. "He's been very involved in her care."

"Of course. The company situation is delicate. If she has another episode, the merger could be at risk."

I keep my eyes on my book, my heart pounding. A merger?

"The press coverage is under control," Dr. Mage continues. "The public believes she's on a health break."

"Her father's connections helped with that," Dr. Mercer lowers his voice. "Between his media contacts and her husband's lawyers, they've kept the worst details quiet."

"And her sister? Natasha?"

"Stepsister," Mercer corrects. "She's handling the company while Mrs. Westfield is here. Doing well, apparently."

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. Natasha running my company. A merger happening without me.

They aren't just keeping me here—they're erasing me.

"About visitors," Mercer adds. "Both Mr. Westfield and Ms. Blackwood are coming today."

"As usual. They check on her often," Mage replies.

"Yes. Let's get ready for them." Their voices fade as they walk away.

I stare at my book without seeing the words.

My mind races. I need proof. The visitor log. Every visitor has to sign in at the front desk. If Natasha has been coming while I was too drugged to notice, her name would be there.

Getting to the security desk won't be easy. My new privileges let me walk around more, but the front entrance is still restricted. Not locked, though.

At lunch, I force myself to eat. I need my strength.

When an orderly arrives to take me back to my room before Alexander's visit, I see my chance.

"I left my sweater in the common room," I say softly, tilting my head as if confused. "Can I go get it?"

Paul, the kinder of the orderlies, hesitates. "I can grab it for you."

"Please," I whisper. "Dr. Mercer says I need to walk more for my circulation."

He checks his watch. "Fine. Come right back. Your husband arrives in an hour."

We walk together. I make a show of searching for my sweater. "Strange. Maybe I left it by the reading nook?"

The reading nook sits near a hallway leading to the main entrance. As Paul turns to check the chairs, I drift toward the hallway.

"Maybe I hung it on the coat rack near the entrance," I call, walking away casually.

"Mrs. Westfield, wait—" Paul starts after me but gets distracted by another patient.

I don't run. Running would make people notice. Instead, I walk with purpose, my steps steady despite the haze of medication.

The security desk comes into view. A guard sits behind it, speaking into a phone, not paying attention to me. A thick binder rests on the counter.

I grab a paper cup and slowly fill it at the water cooler nearby, keeping my eyes on the log.

The guard turns away to grab something. I flip open the binder and skim the entries.

Alexander Westfield. Three visits this week.

Below his name was Natasha  Blackwood. She came on days when I was too drugged to remember anything.

A chill runs through me.

Another name catches my eye—Gerald Bullock. The judge who signed my commitment papers. Alexander's uncle. He visited three days ago.

"Can I help you?" The guard's sharp voice breaks my focus.

"Just thirsty," I murmur, taking a sip of water. "Art therapy made me tired."

The guard frowns. "Patients aren't allowed here alone."

"Paul knows I'm here." Another sip. My heart races, but I force myself to stay calm.

"Mrs. Westfield!" Paul's voice rings down the hallway. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"I got lost," I lie, eyes wide in fake confusion. "I was trying to find my sweater."

Back in my room, I sit on the bed, replaying what I've seen. Natasha and Alexander aren't just visiting. They're working with the judge who locked me away, and I'm certain that my father is in on it too.