The rhythm of machines hummed low as morning filtered into the ICU, turning sterile walls a soft gold. Sarah lay still, eyes closed, skin pale as paper.
Outside her room, stiletto heels clicked with precision—each step sharp and deliberate.
Helena Thomas entered the ward in a designer trench coat and sunglasses, flanked by two personal assistants. Her gaze swept over the machines, the wires, the pale shape of her once-daughter. She hesitated a beat too long before stepping inside.
Ada rose from her chair. “Ma'am. You came."
“I had… a board meeting nearby," Helena murmured, as if explaining herself.
“She's been stable," Ada said quietly. “But the doctors say her will to live is weak. They think… she doesn't want to come back."
Helena looked down at Sarah's face. “Sarah loves spa days.
