Chapter Seventeen The Cell

Elena

Cold metal. Fluorescent lights. A buzzing silence so thick it felt like it crawled into your skin.

I sat alone in the interrogation room, wrists cuffed, heart racing.

They hadn’t formally charged me yet, but the message was loud and clear:

You’re not just under attack anymore, Elena. You’re officially at war.

And I was losing ground.

The two detectives sitting across from me wore polite masks—expressions that said we’re just doing our job, but eyes that screamed we already think you’re guilty.

“Dr. Hart,” the lead detective began, flipping through his file, “there’s testimony from the victim’s sister that you falsified the surgical consent. That you performed without her full understanding of the risks. Would you like to explain that?”

“No,” I said flatly. “Because it’s not true. That case was reviewed, cleared, and archived a year ago. There was no negligence. No falsification.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting, because the hospital board just reopened it. Looks like someone’s pushing hard to bring it back to light.”

Of course they were.

And I knew exactly who that someone was.

Sophie Mitchell wasn’t just trying to ruin my reputation now.

She wanted my freedom.

“Why would the victim’s sister lie?” the second detective asked.

I stared at him. “Why would a woman who’s blackmailed three men, destroyed two marriages, and faked mental health records to the media lie? Maybe you should ask her.”

They didn’t answer.

Instead, they left me in silence for hours.

The cuffs bit into my skin. The walls pressed in. But I didn’t break.

I couldn’t afford to—not yet.

When they finally released me on bail, Rachel was waiting outside.

She pulled me into her arms so tightly, I almost crumbled.

“Jesus, Elena,” she whispered. “She’s out for blood.”

“I know,” I rasped.

“Your license is under review. They’re suspending your right to practice until this clears.”

The last bit of me cracked, right then and there.

My career—my identity—was now on pause. Maybe gone forever.

I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as Rachel drove. The city blurred past, but my mind stayed locked on one image:

Sophie’s face when she watched me being arrested.

She would’ve smiled.

She would’ve savored it.

But she made one mistake.

She thought I’d break.

She didn’t understand that the moment you take everything from a woman with nothing left… you give her permission to become dangerous.

When I got home, the house felt different. Colder. Like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

But there was one thing still waiting on the kitchen counter: a package.

No name. No return address.

Inside?

A single photo.

Daniel. At a hotel. Holding hands with Sophie. But it wasn’t recent—it was dated a year before I ever suspected the affair.

Beneath it, a note scrawled in perfect cursive:

“He was never yours. And now, neither is your life.” — S”

She wanted me to feel it. The humiliation. The powerlessness. The loss.

But what she didn’t know—what she’d never understand—is that you can’t kill a woman who’s already buried her old self.

You can only awaken what’s underneath.

I picked up the photo. Tore it once. Then again. Then again.

And I whispered to the empty house:

“You declared war, Sophie.”

I looked in the mirror.

“No more defense. No more running.”

A fire lit in my chest.

“I’m coming for you now.”