Chapter 3 - The Forgotten Wing
The storm raged over the Green Mountains of Vermont, casting torrential rain against the stone facade of the St. Jude Recovery Center. The facility was an exclusive, high-walled sanctuary nestled deep in the forest, catering to the ultra-wealthy.
Inside Room 304, the lights were turned down low.
Elena Mercer sat on the edge of a velvet armchair near the cold fireplace. She wore a simple beige knit sweater and dark trousers. Beside her stood two large leather suitcases, packed tight and buckled shut.
She looked at the small digital clock on the nightstand. 11:42 PM.
It had been eleven days. Eleven endless days since Dr. Vance had told her she was fully discharged and cleared to return home to her husband and son. Eleven days of sitting by the window, watching the iron gates at the end of the driveway, waiting for the sleek black sedan that Grant was supposed to send for her.
Every morning, Dr. Vance would enter her room with a sympathetic, pained expression.
“I’m so sorry, Elena,” the doctor would say, holding a clipboard. “I called Grant’s office again today. His executive secretary said he is extremely busy with the European acquisition. He feels it might be better for you to stay here a bit longer until he has time to manage your return.”
Every word had been a dagger through Elena’s heart.
She had spent six weeks believing her husband couldn't bear to look at her because she had failed to carry their second child to term. She believed Grant had moved on—that he was building a life without her in the city, leaving her tucked away in the mountains like an embarrassing secret.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence.
Dr. Alistair Vance stepped inside, carrying a small paper cup and a glass of water. He was a silver-haired man in his late fifties, dressed in a sharp tweed jacket.
“Still awake, Elena?” Alistair asked smoothly, his tone laced with practiced, clinical warmth. “You really should sleep. Stress will only delay your recovery.”
Elena didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on her packed suitcases. “Did he call today, Alistair? Did Grant call?”
Alistair sighed, setting the paper cup on the nightstand. “Grant is a very powerful, very busy man, my dear. Mercer Global is undergoing a massive restructuring. You must understand... caring for a child and an ailing wife is a lot of pressure for someone in his position.”
“I’m not ailing,” Elena said, her voice dropping into a quiet, trembling register. She turned her head, her green eyes burning with raw, desperate fire. “I am fine. I haven't taken medication in three weeks. My heart is stable. My son is eighteen months old, Alistair. He doesn't even know my voice anymore.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn't rush,” Alistair said gently, stepping closer. “Vivienne is at the house every day ensuring Leo is well looked after. She sends me daily updates. You don't need to worry about a thing.”
Elena’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. Vivienne.
Vivienne Cross had been Elena’s childhood friend. When Elena went into the clinic, Vivienne had promised to watch over Grant and Leo like a sister. But over the last six weeks, whenever Elena tried to call Vivienne’s mobile phone, the call went straight to voicemail.
“Take this mild sedative, Elena,” Alistair said, offering the paper cup. “Get a good night’s rest. We’ll try calling Grant’s office again in the morning.”
Elena looked at the tiny white pill in the cup. Something cold and uneasy stirred in the pit of her stomach.
Before she could reach out, the sudden, violent roar of a high-performance engine cut through the sound of the rain outside. Headlights swept across the bedroom ceiling, blindingly bright, as a black SUV slammed its brakes on the gravel driveway directly below her window.
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Alistair frowned, stepping toward the glass. “What on earth...?”
Downstairs, the heavy oak doors of the clinic’s main entrance were slammed open with enough force to echo through the stone stairwell.
