Will not Repeat

The four week after my escape brought an unexpected complication in the form of Dr. Adrian Soekarno.

I encountered him at a private medical charity event—one of the endless string of galas and fundraisers that defined upper-class social architecture. He was younger than I'd expected for someone with his reputation, perhaps thirty-five, with the kind of understated elegance that suggested competence rather than vanity.

He approached me during the cocktail reception, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes betraying something deeper—concern, perhaps, or guilt.

"Ms. Turi," he said quietly, "I wonder if I might have a moment of your time. Privately."

I assessed him with the cold calculation that had become my default setting. Adrian Soekarno was the Padip family's personal physician—the man who'd overseen Helena's health during her marriage, who'd witnessed her decline into depression and isolation later in life, and who prescribed the drugs that ultimately ended her life at the end