Chapter 21: Cracks in the Facade

DR. KAELEN THORNE-VANE

The grandfather clock in the corridor struck eleven. Rain beat against the windows, and the sound filled the study with a steady, oppressive rhythm. I stood by the grand bay window, watching the courtyard below. Behind me, the door opened without a knock.

He threw a heavy velvet box onto the mahogany desk.

“Enough with the delicate touch, Kaelen,” Julian hissed, running a hand through his damp blond hair. “The court order is signed, but I want her docile before we load her into that van. Completely submissive. I’m not risking her screaming at the docks or making a scene in front of Beatrix’s transport team.”

I didn’t turn around immediately. “She’s already heavily sedated, Julian,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. “If I increase the dosage, you risk neuroleptic malignant syndrome. Her heart could fail before you cross the Solent.”

“Then let it fail!” Julian snapped.

He slammed his fist onto the desk.

“Do you think I care about her heart? I care about her mind! She’s still in there, Kaelen. I see that arrogant, calculating bitch looking down at me, plotting and judging!”

He couldn’t control her, so he wanted to erase her.

I turned slowly and looked at the velvet box. Inside were three ampoules of clear liquid and a heavy-gauge syringe.

Haloperidol combined with high-dose lorazepam.

It would reduce her brilliant mind to a fog within minutes.

“You brought this from my locked dispensary,” I said coldly. “You broke into my medical kit.”

“I am the master of this house!” Julian shouted, leaning across the desk. “I pay your outrageous fees! You work for me, Thorne-Vane! Inject her. Sedate her until she can’t even remember her own name, or I’ll have my men put a bullet in your spine and throw you off this estate myself.”

My pulse hammered in my throat, but my hands remained still. I looked at Julian and saw past the polished tie and tailored suit.

Beneath it all was a frightened, weak man.

“If I administer a ten-milligram bolus of unmonitored antipsychotics to a patient already suffering from severe postural hypotension and neurotoxicity,” I said slowly, “the sudden drop in cerebral perfusion could cause myocardial ischemia.”

“In plain English, Julian, she could suffer a fatal cardiac arrest within minutes.”

Julian blinked. Hesitation crossed his frantic face.

“You’re lying. You’re just trying to protect her.”

“I’m protecting you,” I lied smoothly.

“You want her estate. You want her forty million pounds. You don’t want an autopsy conducted by a Home Office pathologist showing lethal toxicity from restricted psychiatric drugs administered shortly before her death.”

His face tightened.

“You’ll be arrested for murder before her body even turns cold. Is that what you want? To trade Ashford Manor for a six-by-eight cell in Belmarsh?”

Julian swallowed hard.

“She’s… she’s too quiet,” he muttered. “She looked at me earlier, Kaelen. She didn’t look crazy. She looked at me like she used to look at me in the boardroom before she destroyed my investment proposals.”

“It’s catatonia,” I said, lowering my voice.

I placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“It’s the final stage of mental regression. She’s slipping into a deep stupor. If you leave her alone for the next hour, the medication will take full effect. She’ll walk onto that transport like a ghost. Not a single word of resistance.”

Julian closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.

“One hour,” he whispered. “You have one hour to prepare her. If she isn’t completely paralyzed by then, I’m using the syringe myself.”

“Understood.”

He turned and stumbled out.

The moment the lock clicked, my composure shattered.

I gripped the desk, fighting for breath. I picked up the velvet box, shoved it into my coat pocket, and moved through the dark corridors toward the north wing.

Two security guards stood outside Wren’s bedroom, arms crossed, watching me suspiciously.

“Mr. Vance authorized an hour of pre-transport stabilization,” I said, holding up my medical ledger.

One unlocked the heavy brass deadbolt.

I stepped inside and locked the door.

The room was dim. Rain drummed against the windows.

Wren stood beside the canopy bed. She had removed her silk lounge pants and wore a thin, lace-trimmed black slip.

When she turned, her sapphire eyes were completely clear, sharp and focused.

“Did he buy it?” she asked, her voice low and rough.

I couldn’t answer immediately.

Seeing her like this unmasked, fierce, completely in control destroyed the last thread of my professional restraint.

I locked the interior deadbolt, dropped my medical bag, and crossed the room in three strides.

“Kaelen”

I didn’t let her finish.

I cupped the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her cool hair, and pulled her against me.

My mouth met hers in a desperate kiss, months of fear, tension, and longing finally breaking free.

Wren gasped, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands caught my jacket and pulled me closer.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Two people who had held their breath too long finally taking air.

I pressed her against the carved wooden post of the canopy bed. When we broke apart, both of us were breathing hard.

“You’re driving me insane, Emerence,” I murmured against her lips. My mouth moved to her jaw, then lower, leaving brief kisses against her skin. “He wanted to destroy you. He wanted to turn you into a doll.”

“He can’t touch me,” Wren whispered, holding onto me. “Not while I have you.”

I pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.

“We have forty-five minutes before he comes back,” I whispered, tracing my thumb over her lower lip. “The satellite relay is secure. The Swiss bank accounts are frozen. But Julian isn’t going to wait for the transport. He’s planning to move you early.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“How early?”

Before I could answer, a strange, wet thud came from the balcony.

Then came the metallic scrape of a blade against iron.

Wren froze, her hands tightening around my shoulders.

I moved instantly, stepping in front of her and shielding her body as I reached into my coat for the heavy glass ampoule.

Through the sheer lace curtain, I saw a dark figure.

They weren’t trying to get inside.

They were writing on the glass.

Something thick and dark dripped down the pane in hurried, jagged letters.

It wasn’t red lipstick this time.

It was fresh blood.

The shadow disappeared into the pouring rain.

I stared at the message.

Three words burned through my mind.

HE KNOWS WHO YOU REALLY ARE, THORNE.