The black SUV glided to a halt at the ergency entrance of St. Jude’s Hospital, looking like a tank arriving at a red carpet event.
Through the tinted windows, Aria could see the chaos. Thanks to Bella’s Instagram Live, the paparazzi had descended like vultures. A swarm of caras, microphones, and flashing lights blocked the sliding doors, buzzing with the frantic energy of a feeding frenzy.
"Jesus," Zoe whispered, peering out the window. "There are so many of them. Bella really summoned the horde."
She looked at the four massive security guards squeezing out of the escort vehicle ahead of them.
"Your boys... they’re going to clear that?" Zoe asked, her voice hushed with a mix of fear and admiration.
"They’re going to part the Red Sea," Aria said, sliding her sunglasses on despite it being night. "Stay close to , Zoe."
The door opened.
Aria stepped out. Her fuzzy slides hit the pavent.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"ARIA! ARIA OVER HERE!" "IS RAYMOND VALE DEAD?" "WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO BELLA?"
The noise was a physical wall of sound. Aria didn’t flinch. She adjusted Damien’s oversized t-shirt, pulling it off one shoulder in a calculated display of nonchalance.
The "Wall"—Damien’s security detail—ford a tight diamond formation around them. They didn’t ask the paparazzi to move; they simply walked. Caras were shoved aside by broad shoulders. Microphones were blocked by gloved hands.
Zoe clung to the back of Aria’s shirt, keeping her head down, peeking out nervously at the wall of muscle protecting them.
"I feel like a hobbit in a land of giants," Zoe mumbled.
They breached the hospital doors. The silence of the sterilized hallway cut off the noise outside instantly.
"ICU Waiting Room," Aria commanded the lead guard. "Let’s get this over with."
They took the elevator up. The guards stood facing the doors, silent and imposing.
When the doors opened on the fourth floor, they stepped into a different kind of circus.
The private waiting room was crowded. Lawyers in wrinkled suits were pacing. Doctors looked stressed, whispering in huddled groups. And in the center of it all, Lydia Laurent was holding court.
She was sitting on a beige sofa, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. She looked impeccable—hair perfect, black dress modest but expensive. She looked like a grieving widow who had already picked out the casket wood.
When Aria walked in, flanked by her terrifying security detail and wearing pajama-chic, the room stopped.
"Aria!" Lydia cried out, standing up. "Thank god. You’re here."
She rushed forward, arms open for a motherly hug, clearly playing to the audience of lawyers.
Aria didn’t stop walking. She didn’t even slow down.
The lead guard stepped in, blocking Lydia with a wall of chest muscle.
Lydia halted, blinking, dwarfed by the man. "Aria, darling, this is no ti for—"
"Where are the papers?" Aria asked, her voice bored, looking past Lydia as if she were a piece of furniture.
The lawyers scrambled. A man with a comb-over and a sweat-stained collar rushed forward with a clipboard.
"Mrs. Sinclair! Thank you for coming. Ti is of the essence. Mr. Vale is in critical condition. We need your signature to unfreeze the Trust’s dical contingency fund. The surgeons are prepping, but they can’t operate until the deposit clears."
He thrust the pen at her.
"Sign here, here, and here."
Aria took the clipboard. She looked at the docunt. It was a standard release. Millions of dollars to save the life of the man who had signed to have her locked up in a ntal asylum.
She looked at the dical chart attached to the back.
Patient: Raymond Vale. Symptoms: Sudden collapse. Cardiac arrhythmia. Respiratory distress. Seizure-like activity.
Aria’s eyes narrowed. The text blurred, replaced by a mory from ten years ago.
She was ten years old. She was standing in the hallway of the Vale estate, watching paradics wheel a gurney out of her mother’s room. Her mother had "collapsed." Her mother had "heart failure."
The symptoms were identical.
She looked at Lydia.
Lydia was watching her closely, her eyes sharp and predatory despite the "worried wife" act. She was wringing her hands, but her posture was tense. She needed that signature. She needed the money released.
"He’s in so much pain, Aria," Lydia sniffed. "Please. Just sign it. Save your father."
Aria uncapped the pen.
"Cardiac arrest," Aria read aloud from the chart, her voice flat. "Interesting. Raymond has no history of heart disease. His cholesterol is lower than mine. He runs 5Ks for photo ops."
"Stress," Lydia said quickly, too quickly. "The investigation... the business... it’s been too much for him."
"Stress," Aria repeated.
She lowered the pen, hovering just over the signature line. The lawyers held their breath.
"Doctor?" she called out to the lead surgeon waiting by the doors.
"Yes, Mrs. Sinclair?"
"Before I sign this," Aria said, her voice clear and calm. "I have a condition."
"Anything," the lawyer said. "Just sign!"
"I want a toxicology screen," Aria said.
The room went dead silent.
Lydia froze. The handkerchief in her hand stopped moving.
"A... what?" the doctor asked, confused.
"A full toxicology panel," Aria clarified, looking the doctor in the eye. "Heavy tals. Neurotoxins. Specifically... Gelsemium elegans. And maybe arsenic."
"Aria!" Lydia gasped, clutching her pearls. "What are you implying? This is your father! He had a heart attack!"
"Did he?" Aria asked, turning her cold, erald gaze on her stepmother. "Because the last ti a healthy person in this family suddenly collapsed with ’heart failure’, you buried her without an autopsy three days later. I was ten, Lydia. I didn’t know how to ask for a blood test then."
She stepped closer to Lydia, the fuzzy slides making no sound on the tile.
"But I’m twenty now. And I’m rich. And I’m suspicious."
Lydia’s face turned a shade of grey that matched the hospital linoleum. "You... you think I..."
"I think history has a funny way of repeating itself when money is tight," Aria smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. "The IRS froze your accounts, Lydia. You’re desperate. And a grieving widow inherits a lot faster than a divorced wife."
"How dare you!" Lydia shrieked, looking around for support. "Doctor, she is hysterical! She is delaying treatnt! She wants him to die!"
"I’m the one with the checkbook, Lydia," Aria reminded her, tapping the clipboard with the pen.
She turned back to the doctor.
"Run the screen. Stat. If it cos back clean, I sign the check. If you find so much as a drop of sothing that shouldn’t be there... I sign a police report."
The doctor looked from Aria to the sweating lawyers to the pale Lydia. He realized who was holding the power in the room.
"We can run a rapid panel," the doctor said. "It will take twenty minutes."
"Do it," Aria said.
She sat down in the nearest chair, crossing her legs and getting comfortable in her lounge wear. She handed the clipboard to Zoe.
"Hold this," Aria said. "We have twenty minutes."
She looked at Lydia.
"Sit down, Stepmother. You look like you’re going to faint. Do you need so water? Or maybe a lawyer of your own?"
Lydia sat. She didn’t say a word. But the way she gripped her purse, her knuckles white, told Aria everything she needed to know.
Lydia was terrified.
And Aria was enjoying every second of it.
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