"Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows." – Galatians 6:7

I've always found that particular verse to be strangely comforting. It's not about forgiveness. It's about the unbreakable law of cause and effect. You plant pain, you harvest suffering. Simple.

Two days have passed since Victor Croft's "unfortunate accident." I wonder what his reaction will be if he sees me standing in front of him. Will he be as terrified as his son, haunted by the ghost of a dead woman? Or will the shock be too much, stopping his frail, treacherous heart right there? I can't have that. I won't let him die this soon, and certainly not by something as simple as a heart attack. That would be a kindness, and he deserves none.

The sun is shining today in a way that feels almost mocking, like the world is pretending everything is fine. It's a beautiful, crisp morning, completely at odds with the darkness curling in my chest as I walk through the automatic doors of Bloom Hospital.

I wanted to come the moment they wheeled him in, to see the panic fresh on his face. But that would have been reckless, a surge of emotion that could unravel my careful plans. Patience is a discipline.

The news cycle has already moved on from the Crofts' scandal. But the damage is done. Their reputation is in tatters, and from what I've seen on the business feeds, Ethan is running around his company like a headless chicken, trying to stop the bleeding as sales drop.

Good. Let him feel the pressure.

The hospital lobby is all bright lights and efficiently working. I approach the main reception desk with a solemn expressionl. The woman behind it has a kind but tired face, her fingers poised over a keyboard.

"Good morning," I say, my voice soft and deliberately a little hesitant. "Could you please tell me which room Victor Croft is in?"

She looks up, her expression shifting into a polite but firm mask. "I can check for you. May I ask your relation to the patient?"

I let my smile turn a little sad, a practiced look of worried concern. "He's my uncle. His son, Ethan, and I are cousins."

Her eyes flick over me, taking in my expensive but understated coat, wondering if I am telling the truth. I can see the doubt there. It's understandable.

"And your name, ma'am?"

"Margot," I say without missing a beat. It's the name of Ethan's second cousin, a wild girl who ran off with a motorcycle-riding drug dealer years ago and was never spoken of again. A perfect scapegoat.

The receptionist's lips tighten slightly. She's about to refuse. I can feel it.

Before she can speak, I lean in just a little, my voice dropping to a confidential tone. "My Aunt Esther is just... overwhelmed. She sent me to check on him." I gesture with the tasteful wicker basket in my hand. It's filled with beautiful, wax fruit-shimmering apples and perfect, fake pears.

Why on earth would I spend money on real food for that man?

The mention of Esther, the wife, seems to tip the scales. The receptionist's suspicion softens into a weary acceptance. People send strange relatives all the time in a crisis. She types, clicks, and nods.

"Room 407. West wing, take the elevators to the fourth floor."

"Thank you so much," I say, my smile genuine now for a completely different reason.

I turn and walk toward the elevators, the wax fruit shifting silently in the basket. The ride to the fourth floor is smooth and quiet. The hallway is hushed, the air smelling of antiseptic and quiet suffering. I find Room 407, its number stamped on the door in dull silver. I take a quick glance up and down the hall. Empty. For the past two days, my surveillance showed Esther only visits in the evening, a quick, duty-bound stop. And Ethan is too busy trying to save his crumbling empire to play the devoted son.

I turn the handle and peek inside. There he is, Victor Croft, lying in the expensive-looking private room bed, his eyes closed. A strange feeling washes over me, seeing the man who was once my father-in-law after five long years.

He looks older, frailer under the harsh hospital light, but it doesn't soften anything. For a second, the memory of his face flashes before me– the cold, displeased look he wore on the day they set fire to my parents' house.

I close the door securely behind me. The soft click of the lock is the only sound. I place the useless basket of fake fruit on the side table with a quiet thud and look down at him. Indifference, anger, and a cold thread of pity twist together inside me.

He'll be fine in a couple of days, the doctors said. Ready to go home. But that can't happen. He can't just walk out of here.

My hand slips into the deep pocket of my coat. I pull out a small syringe and a capsule bottle. Inside is a powerful, fast-acting sedative designed to induce a deep, medically-induced coma. It's not meant to kill, not today. It's meant to trap. To make him a prisoner in his own body.

My hands are steady as I fill the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles. The adrenaline makes my nerves buzz. I find the port in the IV line connected to his arm and push the plunger slowly. The pale yellow liquid disappears into the clear tube, heading straight for his bloodstream.

I sit down in the chair beside his bed, watching him. The doctor said it would take ten to fifteen minutes for the full effects. I don't have that kind of patience.

"Victor Croft," I call, my voice flat. "Wake up."

He doesn't stir, lost in a drugged, natural sleep. A smirk touches my lips. I get up, lean over the bed rail, and wrap my hand around his throat. Not enough to truly cut off his air, but enough to startle, to frighten, to drag him back from the dark. I squeeze, my grip firm.

Within seconds, his eyes fly open, wide and disoriented, and land directly on mine. Panic floods them instantly.

"Hello, father-in-law," I sneer, not letting go. His face begins to turn a mottled red. His free hand flies up, smacking weakly at my wrist, his body struggling against the sheets.

"Y-you... how..?" he gasps, trying to form a coherent sentence, his mind clearly reeling from the shock of seeing me-alive, here, furious.

"Shocking, isn't it?" I say, my voice a low, venomous whisper. I finally release my grip and step back. He collapses against the pillows, coughing, trying to drag air into his lungs. "You might think you're dreaming, but you're not. I've really come back from the dead." I add that with a dry chuckle.

"What is... how can you be here?" he stammers, his voice rough with fear and confusion.

I let out a short, cold snort. "That's not the important question you should be asking. You should be asking why I am here."

He gulps visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The fear in his eyes is a physical thing. It's everything I wanted to see. "W-why are you here?"

I lean in again, fast, pinning him to the bed with one hand on his chest. My face is inches from his. "You killed me, remember?" I hiss, the words dripping with five years of bottled rage. "You, your wife, and that scumbag son of yours killed my family and left us to burn!" My chest rises and falls. "And I am here to take everything back, piece by piece. I won't let you have a single moment of peace! This is just the start, Victor. I swear on my parents' souls, I'll ruin you all!"

His body trembles violently under my hand. With a sudden, desperate burst of strength fueled by pure terror, he shoves me back. "N-no!" he yells, the sound ragged.

I laugh, the sound cold and mocking in the sterile room. "What can you even do, Victor? Look at you. Your own wife and son see you as nothing but a stain on their precious family name. A public embarrassment. A shame they're forced to visit."

"That isn't true!" he snarls, his anger cutting through the fear. He makes a frantic lunge for the nurse call button on the bedside table. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist mid-air. I twist it back, bending his arm at a painful angle, and lean close.

"You have no power here, Victor Croft," I whisper, my voice a deadly promise. "All you're going to do now is rot in this bed."

He grits his teeth, tears of pain and rage in his eyes. "You're a monster," he chokes out.

But then, his words cut off in a sharp, wet grunt. His free hand flies to his chest, clawing at the hospital gown. His eyes bulge, and he collapses back onto the pillows, his body seizing, muscles going taut and rigid. A low, pained groan is forced from his lips with every strained breath. I step back, watching dispassionately. The medicine is taking effect, exactly as planned. My work here is done.

Watching him like this doesn't make me feel sympathy. It doesn't stir any emotion at all. It just feels... correct. Like he deserves it.

Suddenly, the sharp click-click of the door handle being tried from the outside cuts through the sound of his suffering. My heart lurches, a spike of pure panic shooting through my veins.

"Is someone in there?" a faint, familiar voice calls from the hallway. It's Esther. "It's locked."

Shit.

"Ethan, are you in there?" she calls, her voice getting louder, tinged with impatience.

On the bed, Victor gives one last, shuddering gasp. His eyes are rolling back, his body going slack. Any second now, he'll be gone, sinking into a deep deep sleep.

But right now, I have a much bigger problem. I have to get out, and Esther is right outside the door. I spin around, my eyes darting to the window. I run to it, yanking the blinds aside. It's a sheer drop four stories down to a concrete courtyard. There's no fire escape, no ledge. Jumping will be basically committing suicide.

Think, Vanessa, think!

"Hello?" Esther barks, and I hear her rattling the handle more forcefully now. "Who's in there? I'm calling security!"

Panic claws at my throat. She wasn't supposed to be here until evening!

I need to come up with a solution or else my five year long plan will be ruined and that is something I cannot afford.

"How can the door get locked by itself?"

Esther's voice is a sharp whip-crack in the hallway which is directed at a flustered nurse. "My husband is sleeping in there! How could he possibly have locked it?"

I hold my breath, peering through the narrow crack of the closet door. It's suffocating inside, dark, cramped, and smelling of stale linen and antiseptic. Every breath feels too loud. Hiding here was a last-second, desperate decision. If I hadn't, Esther would be questioning me right now, or worse, I might have already done something recklessly voilent to silence her.

She keeps barking at the poor nurse, her words clipped and entitled. The nurse finally manages to stammer out an apology about the automatic lock possibly engaging if the door was shut too firmly, and then her quick footsteps retreat down the hall.

Esther huffs, a sound of pure irritation. I watch through the slit as she strides into the room and drops into the chair beside Victor's bed, her back to me. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn't move an inch.

"Dear God, Victor," she sighs, her voice that particular brand of cranky I once mistook for sophistication. Now, it just grates on my nerves. "How can you sleep through all that commotion?"

I need to get out. Now. Before she turns around, before I lose the last shred of my control and decide to shut her up permanently.

"Victor!" she yells suddenly, her voice sharp. "What kind of bear are you? Victor! Wake up!" She probably shakes his shoulder; I can see her arm move. It won't be long now before she realizes this isn't normal sleep.

She was supposed to find him like this in the evening. This timing is... inconvenient. But it's fine. It's not like they'll ever trace it back to me.

Her voice shifts, the annoyance bleeding into confusion, then a thread of real concern. She's on her feet now, leaning over him. "Victor, are you joking me? Wake up already!" She pats his cheek, harder now. When he remains utterly still, a marionette with cut strings, her panic finally breaks through.

"Help! Someone, help!" Her cry is sharp, genuine fear replacing the drama. Within a minute, the room fills with the soft squeak of rubber soles and urgent voices. Nurses and a doctor rush in.

"He's not waking up! No matter what I do!" Esther cries, her voice trembling with performative tears. "What's happened to him?"

"Please, Mrs. Croft, try to calm down," the doctor says in a practiced, placating tone as he begins his examination. I wish I could see her face clearly, the panic, the confusion. I'd love to laugh right in it.

After a moment, the doctor's voice turns grave. "He's unconscious. His vitals are stable, but he's completely non-responsive. We need to run a series of tests immediately. A full neurological workup, toxicology screening, the works to understand why."

"What kind of medicine did you people put him on that he's like this?" Esther accuses, her fear morphing back into haughty blame. "He was perfectly fine yesterday!"

Typical Esther. Always the drama, even when it's real. She'll milk this for every ounce of sympathy she can get.

The closet door opens with a soft, careful creak. The noise is swallowed by the urgent murmurs of the doctor and Esther's escalating, tearful demands. Everyone is clustered around the bed, their backs to me.

For a single, frozen second, I stand in the doorway of the closet, exposed. Then, moving with a silent, deliberate speed I learned from a lifetime of fleeing worse things, I slip out.

I don't look back. I don't glance at Victor's still form or Esther's dramatic silhouette. My eyes are fixed on the open door to the hallway. In three long strides, I'm through it, turning sharply away from the nurses' station and toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. The heavy door swings shut behind me, muting the sounds of the crisis.

I take the stairs two at a time, my heels echoing too loudly in the concrete enclosure. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of adrenaline and triumph. I did it.

By the time I push through the door into the bright, bustling main lobby, I've forced my breathing to slow. I can't look like I'm running. I smooth my coat, lift my chin, and walk with purpose toward the exit.

The receptionist from earlier looks up as I pass her desk. Our eyes meet. A jolt of alarm shoots through me, but I don't let it touch my face. Instead, I offer her a small, polite smile-the smile of a concerned niece leaving after a difficult visit. She gives a tired, automatic smile in return and looks back at her computer.

Almost there. The automatic doors whoosh open, welcoming the crisp outside air. A wave of relief hits me. I step out, intending to melt into the flow of people on the sidewalk.

And that's when I crash right into a solid wall of charcoal-grey wool and muscle.

Strong hands fly up to catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can stumble back. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. I look up, an apology already dying on my lips.

My eyes meet a pair of cool, familiar grey ones.

Ceron Morrison stares down at me, his expression one of mild surprise that quickly sharpens into intense scrutiny. His grip on my shoulders is firm, unyielding.

My heart is still thundering, a chaotic echo of the closet, Esther, Victor's seizing body. For a second, the world tilts-the crisp hospital air, the scent of his subtle cologne, the piercing grey of his eyes all crashing into the dark adrenaline still coursing through me.

I blink, forcing composure to settle over me like a shield. I straighten up, pulling back from his hold. Before I can form a breathless apology, he speaks.

"Are you alright?" His voice is low, closer to concern than accusation.

"I'm fine," I say, my own voice thankfully steady. I offer a small, polite smile. "I do apologise for bumping into you. I wasn't looking where I was going."

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored dark trousers, his gaze never leaving my face. A hint of amusement touches his lips. "It seems to be a habit of ours. The first time was at the Aethelred show, if I recall."

"Oh," I say, the memory flashing. "Yes, I suppose it was."

"I must say, Miss Ashford," he says, and that look is back (the one that feels like it's trying to peel back my layers.) "This is an unexpected place for a meeting."

My mind races. "An old family friend is undergoing treatment here," I lie smoothly, gesturing vaguely back toward the building. "I was just paying a visit." The words taste like ash, considering what I just left behind.

He nods slowly, as if filing the information away. "A kind gesture."

I need to turn this around. "And you, Mr. Morrison? What brings you to a hospital on a Sunday?"

"Due diligence," he replies easily, his tone neutral. "Morrison World is considering a philanthropic partnership with their pediatric oncology wing. I prefer to see the facilities for myself."

It's a perfectly reasonable, even noble, explanation. Yet, something about the timing feels... pointed.

I start to step sideways, offering another polite smile. "Well, I won't keep you. Have a good day."

"Actually," he says, the single word stopping me in my tracks. "If you're not rushing off... are you busy? Do you have other plans?"

Why is he asking me? It's Sunday. The question feels loaded.

"Nothing planned yet," I admit, keeping my tone light and formal.

Then, to my genuine surprise, he asks, "Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?"

My breath catches. Is he asking me out... like that? The thought sends a bizarre, unwarmed flutter through my chest, immediately followed by suspicion.

He seems to read the hesitation on my face. A faint, knowing smile appears. "I assure you, it's nothing of that sort. Purely a discussion about the Winter Couture project. I have a few thoughts on the phoenix narrative. If that's acceptable to you."

Oh. Of course. Now it makes sense. Business. Always business.

Should I say yes? I was going to go home, watch the live feed of the Croft family implosion, and lose myself in work. That was the plan.

But Ceron Morrison is an enigma. Ever since that first moment at the show, his gaze has fallen on me in a way I can't quite explain. It irks me. It intrigues me. And right now, intrigued is a better feeling than the cold, clinical triumph still humming in my veins.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "A cup of coffee would be fine."