Chapter 2: “The Doctor’s Lie”

Frieda’s POV

The hospital smelled super strong of cleaning stuff, and something else a little sweet. Michael was staying in a very special section. It was just for rich, important people who wanted everything quiet. His room looked like a really expensive, empty jail cell.

I showed up wearing my "sad wife" clothes. Everything was black and fit perfectly. I only wore my heavy, shiny platinum ring.

I looked like I was heartbroken, but deep down, I felt a secret, crazy kind of happy. Every minute Michael was sick in bed was a minute I didn't have to be near him. This happy feeling was a big secret, and I was scared my true smile might show on my face.

Claudia Hart was waiting for me. Since the crash, she had been acting like the boss of everything. She talked to the TV reporters and gave serious speeches to keep the company's money safe. Now, she was telling me what to do.

"Smile for the cameras, sweetie. A brave, little smile," she whispered. She quickly fixed my jacket as we walked. "But don't look too worried. We need everyone to think the company is strong."

"I know what I need to do, Claudia."

"Do you? Then hold your hands exactly like this." She showed me how to clasp them. "It looks controlled, not messy. Remember, it's a show, Frieda. Always."

"Does the show matter more than his life?" I asked her.

"His life is the show, dear. And the audience is the people who give us money."

I went into Michael's room. He was pale and had wires and screens all around him, but he was awake. When he saw me, his eyes got cold and hard. It was a look that said:

Don't even think about it, Frieda. I still own you, even when I'm hurt.

I sat in the hard chair and held his cold hand. I forced myself to stay for five minutes. We didn't talk. I just watched the clock, wishing it would move faster. 

The only sound was the quiet beeping of the machines. The lines bounced across the screens. He was still alive. And as long as he was alive, I was stuck.

"I’ve finished the required five minutes," I quietly said to myself.

I walked over to a table to sign the huge stack of bills. As I looked at the papers, one word jumped out at me: "Stabilization."

Stabilization.

It wasn't a clear picture, but a sudden flash. I heard a shout, and that one word, "stabilization," followed by a voice. It was from years ago, the night my parents died in the "accident." I squeezed the pen hard.

Did Michael just use my parents' death for money, or did he actually cause it? The thought was awful, and I tried to push it away. I had to focus on getting away from him now.

I finished signing. Dr. Patricia Moore walked in. She was Michael’s special doctor. She was quiet and looked very serious, like a teacher who never smiled.

“Mrs. Van Leer, I need a quick word.” She led me into the empty hallway. “The good news is he is stable.”

I waited, expecting something bad.

“The bad news is there are serious problems. His injuries are very bad.” 

She looked up and down the empty hall. “Because of how he was hurt, Michael will be permanently unable to have sex. He will not be able to do that for the rest of his life.”

I couldn't breathe. I stared at her. I waited to feel the crushing sadness a normal wife should feel. It never came.

It was the best news ever. The terrible sex every night was over. My time in jail felt like it had been canceled.

“Thank you,” I managed to whisper, feeling dizzy with shock.

“I am sorry for your trouble,” Dr. Moore finished, turning to walk away.

But as she turned, I saw her face change, just for a second. It wasn't sadness. It was a flash of something knowing, like she had won a contest. She looked cold and proud.

It’s a lie.

I suddenly knew the truth: the story about his injury was not real. It was a fake part of a larger, scary plan. The tiny bit of freedom I had just felt disappeared. Now, I was more afraid than ever.

Shaking, I hurried back to my car. I took out my secure tablet and searched for Dr. Patricia Moore. Her records were perfect. But I just knew she was lying. I looked up at the clock, my heart pounding.

My tablet suddenly flashed, hiding the search screen. It was a secret message from Michael's main computer. The note was short, sharp, and terrifying:

Michael C. Van Leer is asking for an immediate, private meeting. He is going home tonight.

He should not be able to move. The doctor lied. The cage is closing again, and he's bringing something new home with him.