The Drugged Room

Chapter 2 The Perfect Mother's Venom

Martha shoved past a cameraman. Her styled blonde hair had been carefully loosened around her face, and mascara already streaked both cheeks in even black trails. She had arrived prepared to cry.

She did not touch a single knot. Instead, she threw her arms around my shoulders and pressed me harder into the mattress, pinning me for the men in white. Her nails dug through the lingerie strap.

“My poor, sick girl.” She made sure every camera could hear. “I knew she was getting worse. Arthur, we should have found help sooner!”

The words landed harder than the drug. She was giving every microphone the same story before I could form a sentence of my own.

Julian pulled his suit jacket higher over me. It smelled faintly of cedar. With the blindfold shifted, I could see Arthur clearly now. He watched me the way he watched hotel staff clean up a spilled drink.

Arthur bent low enough that the microphones would miss his next words. “Stop looking at me like that. Tomorrow we'll say you had another episode. Cooperate, and we can still salvage this.”

He spoke as if my ruined name were a scheduling problem.

“She's ill!” Martha called to the reporters. “She needs rest. She needs her doctors.”

Two broad men in white uniforms pushed through the reporters at Martha's signal. One kept a syringe ready in his right hand.

“No.” My voice scraped my throat. I fought Martha's grip. “Don't touch me.”

Martha put her mouth beside my ear. “It's for your own good, darling. You need a long rest.”

The needle entered my upper arm before I could pull away. Lights smeared across the room, and the reporters' voices receded into a dull roar. As the men lifted me from the bed, Julian watched Martha instead of the cameras.

I came around in short, confused bursts, each one bringing the smell of antiseptic and the vibration of an engine beneath me.

The two men from the hotel had wedged me upright between them in the back of a van. My hands were free, but the fresh sedative kept them useless in my lap. The man on my right scrolled through his phone without bothering to hide the screen.

My face filled his screen. It was a still from the hotel room. The headline read: VANDERBILT HEIRESS IN SHOCKING PRE-WEDDING BREAKDOWN. CANCELS NUPTIALS.

A “family source” described my “long and tragic battle with severe mental illness.” It also claimed the wedding was canceled and that I was being transferred to a private long-term facility for my own safety.

Once admitted under Martha's authority, I might never get a phone call past her, much less reach Mr. Abernathy or the board.

The van left the road and turned onto gravel. Beyond the window stood a high iron gate marked ‘Blackwood Sanatorium’ in severe black letters.

The van stopped, and its door lock clicked. Before either orderly moved, a long black Maybach pulled across the narrow drive and blocked the gate completely.

The driver's door opened.

Julian stepped out in the same dark suit he had worn at the hotel. He walked straight to the side of the van and tapped twice on the window.

An orderly opened it a few inches. “Private transport, sir. Move your vehicle.”

Julian looked past the orderly until he found me between the two uniforms. Only then did he face the man at the window.

“Let her go, or Arthur Thorne will be bankrupt by morning.”

The orderly stared at him.

Julian did not wait for permission. He opened the van himself and held out his hand. I managed to catch it with numb fingers. He took my weight, pulled me into the night air, and guided me onto the Maybach's leather seat.

When the car door closed, he turned toward me. He did not try to comfort me.

“This wasn't an accident, Evelyn. They meant to erase you.”