The rain outside Riverbend General Hospital had slowed to a rhythmic, melancholic drizzle, the gray light of dawn filtering through the high windows of the VIP suite. The room was heavy with the scent of antiseptic and the lingering, sour smell of the spilled soy milk on the hardwood floor. Serena Ashford remained anchored to the side of the bed, her spirit frayed to a single, thin thread.
Her distrust of Derek Faulkner was no longer just a grievance; it was a fortress. She had watched him for the last hour from the corner of her eye, a man she had once viewed as her North Star, now appearing only as a dangerous complication. Every word he spoke about traditional medicine or veteran practitioners sounded like a siren’s song designed to lure her away from the only clinical hope her daughte
