Chapter 9

The fluorescent lights of the security hub hummed with a low, predatory vibration. Ethan stood frozen, his shadow stretched long and jagged against the bank of monitors. Beside him, Jacob was a restless weight, his arms crossed, his breathing the only rhythmic thing in a room that felt like it was holding its breath.

Ethan’s jaw was a granite line. His mind was a chaotic loop of Anna’s voice—that fragile, splintering sound. “Mum… please…” It wasn't the voice of a thief or a conspirator. It was the sound of a human being being erased by a lie.

"Play it again," Ethan commanded, his voice a jagged whisper.

The security guard, a man whose uniform seemed two sizes too large for his nervous frame, tapped a key. The digital clock on the screen bled backward. The grainy black-and-white world of the executive floor flickered into life.

There was Jennie.

She wasn't the victim Ethan had envisioned. On the silent screen, she was a whirlwind of calculated rage. She paced the length of the office like a caged animal, sweeping files off the desk in a spray of white paper. She looked possessed by a very specific, very sharp kind of malice. Then, she stopped. She looked down at the glass of water in her hand. With a chilling deliberation, she shattered it against the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Watch her hand," Jacob muttered, leaning in.

Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He watched as Jennie picked up a shard of glass. There was no hesitation. No flinch of pain. She pressed the jagged edge into her own skin, drawing a dark line of red that looked black on the monitor. She wasn't just hurting herself; she was crafting a weapon. She staggered toward Ethan’s private office, adjusting her hair, schooling her face into a mask of agony.

The truth hit Ethan with the force of a physical blow. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, toxic. He saw Anna again—not on the screen, but in his memory. He saw the way he had loomed over her, the way he’d let his own self-righteous fury blind him to the terrified girl trembling in the corner.

"Get this copied," Ethan rasped, his voice cracking. "Now."

"Where are you going?" Jacob called out as Ethan bolted for the door.

Ethan didn't answer. He couldn't. The guilt was a rising tide, choking him. He had handed the wolf the keys to the sheepfold, and then he’d blamed the sheep for bleeding.

*************************************************

The next morning broke over the city with a mocking brilliance. The sun was a white-hot coin in a haze-blue sky, creating a humidity that made the air feel like damp wool.

Inside the hospital, the atmosphere in Jennie’s private suite was jarringly celebratory. It smelled of expensive lilies and antiseptic. To the casual observer, it looked like a bridal shower rather than a recovery room. Bouquets of exotic flowers spilled over every surface.

Mr. Charles stood by the window, his black suit impeccably pressed despite the heat. He looked like a man who had just won a difficult court case. On the bed, Jennie reclined against a mountain of silk pillows, a designer throw draped over her legs. Her mother, Mrs. Lorien, was delicately feeding her pieces of fruit while scrolling through a tablet.

"Another car, darling," Mr. Charles was saying, his voice booming with paternal pride. "A thank-God-you’re-alive gift. The keys are in your purse."

"And the Birkins are arriving this afternoon," Mrs. Lorien added, her eyes bright with the thrill of the purchase.

The door pushed open. Ethan stood there, the flash drive clutched in his hand like a live grenade. He hadn't slept. His eyes were rimmed with red, his shirt rumpled.

The room went silent. The laughter died like a snuffed candle.

"Ethan, son," Mr. Charles said, his face softening into a patronizing smile. "Come in, come in. Don't look so grim."

Ethan walked to the foot of the bed, his boots heavy on the linoleum. Jennie looked up, a small, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Hey, Ethan," she said softly.

"Hey," Ethan replied. The word was a shard of ice.

Mr. Charles stepped forward, clapping a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. The weight of it felt disgusting. "Look, I know your mother overreacted. Hitting you was... well, unnecessary. But we want you to know there’s no hard feelings. We forgive you for letting things get out of hand. It was all that girl’s fault. That... that thief. I would have had her arrested already, even if she is in a coma."

Ethan froze. The room seemed to tilt. "A coma? What are you talking about?"

Mrs. Lorien sipped her wine, her expression bored. "The doctor said someone tampered with her oxygen mask by removing it. She had a massive panic attack in the middle of the night and slipped under. It’s a blessing, really. Saved us the trouble of a public trial. Mr. Charles has dropped the charges to keep things quiet."

"You should be grateful, Ethan," Mrs. Vilonia added, stepping closer. "Jen is safe. The slut is silenced by her own weakness. Let’s just move past this."

The fury that erupted in Ethan’s chest was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn't the hot, screaming rage of the night before. It was cold. It was absolute. He remembered the moment in the ward—how he had looked at Anna’s struggling form, convinced she was a monster. He remembered leaving  her without putting her mask back on , convinced she hurt  Jennie. He had left her there, a small, fragile frame breaking under the weight of his own cruelty.

He looked at Jennie. She was smiling at him—a conspiratorial, "we-won" smile.

"Fuck you," Ethan said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Ethan!" his mother hissed. "Watch your tongue."

"Jennie is a liar, Mum," Ethan said, his voice rising. "Can't you see it? She orchestrated the whole thing. She cut herself. She framed a girl who didn't even know her name."

"She's a thief," Jennie spat, her voice losing its sweetness.

"Say that one more time," Ethan stepped toward the bed, "and I’m going to make sure you never see the outside of a cell again."

Mr. Charles stood up, his face reddening. "Do what?  I'm going to Sue that thief,  I have the best lawyers in the country."

" Huh sure you do " Ethan said.

At that moment, Jacob walked in, carrying a laptop. "Sorry I'm late for the party," he said. "Morning, Mr. Charles, Mrs Charles Mrs vilonia...... Jennie."

Jennie’s face went from pale to ghostly. She shifted on the bed, her bravado evaporating as Jacob set the laptop on the rolling table.

"Let's have a movie night, shall we?" Jacob said.

He hit 'Play.'

The footage began. The room watched in horrific silence as Jennie broke the glass and sliced her own arm. Mrs. Lorien dropped her wine glass; it shattered on the floor, unnoticed.

Then, the second clip. This one was from the hospital’s internal corridor. It showed a figure slipping into Anna’s room. It showed Jennie—her arm not yet bandaged—wiping her own blood onto Anna’s palms, trying to make it look like her blood was there the whole time and now dried.

The video ended.

Mr. Charles sank back into his chair, his face unreadable. Jennie began to sob, but they weren't the soft, victimized sobs of before. They were the jagged, ugly sounds of a trapped animal. "No... that's not... that's edited!"

Jacob snapped the laptop shut. "It’s clear enough for everyone here. Jennie, you aren't just a liar. You’re a sociopath." He turned to Ethan. "I'm going to wait in the car. I can't breathe in here."

Ethan looked at his mother, then at the cowering Jennie. "I hope you saved the receipts for those bags, Jennie. You're going to need the money for a defense attorney." He looked at Mr. Charles. "Clean up your mess. Or I’ll let the DA do it for you."

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Ethan walked down the long, sterile hallway toward the intensive care unit. Every step felt like he was dragging lead weights. He reached Anna’s door and stopped, taking three long, shaky breaths.

He pushed the door open.

The room was dim, the only sound the rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator. But someone was there. A girl stood by Anna’s bed, her hand hovering over Anna’s pale, motionless fingers. She was staring at Anna with an intensity that made Ethan’s protective instincts flare.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, his voice harsh with exhaustion.

The girl jumped, spinning around. She was small, with dark hair and eyes that were already red-rimmed from crying. "I... I'm Rita. I’m Anna’s friend. Her only friend here."

Ethan’s posture softened slightly. He remembered Anna mentioning a roommate during her initial interview—the only person she’d spoken of with  warmth. 

"Are you... are you Eden?" Rita asked nervously, wiping a tear from her cheek. "She talked about an Eden."

"I'm Ethan," he said, the name feeling heavy in his mouth.

Rita seemed to relax, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "I heard you brought her here. Thank you. People like you... in this city... you're rare."

The irony of her words felt like a physical sting. Ethan couldn't look her in the eye. He just nodded, his gaze fixed on the plastic tubing keeping Anna alive.

"Can I ask... what really happened?" Rita whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Ethan sat in the plastic chair by the wall. He told her. Not the sanitized version, but the truth. He told her about the office, about the lies, and about the tape. He left out the part where he was the one who had pulled the mask, but the weight of it sat in his stomach like cold iron.

Rita sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking. "I swore to her dad," she sobbed. "I told him I'd look after her. And now... she’s here. Because of Jennie. Because of a stupid job."

The sight of her grief broke something in Ethan. He stood up, moved by a sudden, desperate need to provide comfort—perhaps to ease his own soul. He reached out and pulled Rita into a clumsy embrace. He was tall, his frame towering over her as she buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.

"It's not your fault," Ethan murmured, his voice thick. "I didn't protect her either. But it's not your fault."

A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. Jacob stood in the doorway, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he took in the scene. "Uh... sorry to interrupt the moment, Ethan, but your mother is losing her mind in the lobby. She’s demanding to see you."

Ethan didn't let go immediately. He looked over Rita’s head at his friend. "She can wait. Go home, Jake. I owe you everything for that footage. Go rest."

Jacob lingered, his eyes narrow, scanning Rita. "Right. And... who is this?"

Rita stepped back, her face flushed and puffy. "I'm Rita... Anna's roomie."

Jacob gave a slow, cautious nod. "Okay. Carry on then." He backed out of the room, looking like he wanted to say more but thinking better of it.

"Hey," Ethan said softly, turning back to Rita.

"Hmm?"

"She’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure she has the best doctors in the state. I won't let anything else happen to her." He gently released her, the silence of the room returning as she nodded and headed toward the door to get some air.

"I'll get some coffee," she whispered. "Do you want one?"

"Yes. Please."

As the door clicked shut, the doctor walked in, a clipboard in hand. He looked at Ethan with a mixture of recognition and deep disapproval.

"Mr. Ethan. I'm glad you're here. Did you speak with your mother?" The doctor sighed, looking at Anna’s chart. "Your employee... it’s a tragedy. Someone removed her oxygen mask last night. In her state, it triggered a massive panic attack, followed by respiratory failure and the coma. I was under the impression you were the last one in the room with her."

The world seemed to go silent. Ethan looked at the doctor, then at Anna’s face—so still, so white against the sheets. He could feel Rita’s presence in his mind, her gratitude, her belief that he was a "rare kind" of man.

"I was the one who removed the mask, Doc," Ethan said. His voice didn't shake, but it was hollow. "I thought... I thought she needed water one thing led to another , I was angry and I left ."

The doctor stared at him for a long beat. The silence was heavier than the one in the corridor. "I see," the doctor said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its professional neutrality. "You left her there. You watched her cry and you took her air. I understand she’s from a different social circle, Mr. Ethan, but being rich doesn't give you the right to treat a human being like discarded trash."

Ethan didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He couldn't. He sank into the chair and covered his face with his hands. A single, hot tear escaped, sliding through his fingers. He had exposed the villain in the ward next door, but as he sat in the rhythmic hiss of the machine, he knew the truth.

Jennie had drawn the blood, but he was the one who almost killed her.