<b>Chapter </b><b>137 </b>


    <b>Connor </b>elerated through the night, the engine of Ethan’s luxury car purring beneath us as <b>we </b>sped toward New York Memorial Hospital. The tension in the vehicle was palpable, Ethan’s usualposed demeanor reced by a tightly controlled anxiety <b>as </b>he made <b>call </b>after call, his voice low and urgent.


    “What exactly happened to your father?” I asked during a brief pause between his calls.


    Ethan’s jaw tightened as he slipped his phone into his pocket. A year ago, my father fell at home. Hit his head on the marble countertop in the kitchen. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the subtle tightening around them. “The scans showed blood umtion pressing on his brain.”


    “A subdural hematoma,” I offered.


    He nced at me, momentarily surprised. “Yes. But during treatment, they discovered something else.” He paused,


    exhaling slowly. “There’s an unidentified toxin in his system. The doctors believe he’d been exposed for at least six


    months before the fall.”


    “Poisoning?<b>” </b>I kept my voice neutral, though my mind was already cataloging possibilities.


    “We don’t know if it was deliberate or environmental. The Haxton family has enemies, but…” He didn’t finish the thought. “We’ve brought in specialists from around the world. No one’s been able to identify it, let alone treat it.”


    “And the subdural hematoma?”


    –


    “Too risky to operate. The toxin haspromised his system. Most surgeons won’t touch him the sess rate is below three percent.” His voice remained steady, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his phone.


    Connor smoothly navigated through traffic, taking corners with practiced precision. In the rearview mirror, his eyes


    flickered with concern for his employer.


    “Who’s his current physician?<b>” </b>I asked.


    “Walter Morrison heads his medical team.” Ethan watched my face carefully. “You know him?”


    I nodded. “We’ve met.”


    The car slowed as we approached the hospital, its upper floors illuminated against the night sky. Connor pulled up to the private entrance<b>, </b>and Ethan was out before the car had fully stopped.


    I followed him through the exclusive entrance, where a security guard nodded in recognition. We took a private elevator to the top floor, the doors opening to reveal a scene of controlled chaos.


    A cluster of well–dressed people – clearly Haxton family members


    1


    drawn with worry. She looked up as the elevator doors opened.


    surrounded an elderly woman whose face was


    :


    “Ethan!” Relief flooded her features. “Thank God you’re here.”


    Ethan crossed to her immediately, taking her hands in his. “Mother, what happened?”


    4 a


    <b>92 </b>


    “He had another seizure. The doctors say the pressure is building, and-” Her voice broke. “They say they need to operate immediately, but the risks-


    “Where’s Dr. Morrison?” Ethan asked, his tone gentle but urgent.


    Alexander stepped forward. “Grandma, don’t worry. Dr. Morrison is on his way.” He nced at his uncle. “They called him twenty minutes ago.”


    The elevator doors opened again, and Walter Morrison hurried out, apanied by a younger assistant. Despite his age, he moved with purpose, his white hair neatlybed, his bow tie slightly askew from his rush.


    “Mrs. Haxton,” he said, slightly breathless. “I came as soon as I heard.”


    “Walter,” she clutched his hands desperately. “They’re saying William needs surgery right now.”


    Morrison’s expression was grave. “Let me speak with the attending physician.”


    As if on cue, a middle–aged doctor in scrubs approached the group, clipboard in hand. “Mrs. Haxton, Mr. Haxton,” he acknowledged Ethan with a nod. “I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer. The pressure on your husband’s brain has


    reached critical levels.”


    “But you said the surgery only has a three percent chance of sess,” Mrs. Haxton protested, her voice rising. “Three


    percent!”


    “It’s his only chance for survival,” the doctor replied firmly. “Without intervention, he won’t make it through the


    night.”


    I watched the family dynamics unfold, standing slightly apart from the group. Mrs. Haxton turned to Morrison, desperation in her eyes.


    “Walter, please. There must be something else we can do.”


    Morrison shook his head slowly. “The surgery is risky, yes. But the doctor is right about the urgency.”


    “And what about the toxin?” Mrs. Haxton demanded. “Even if he survives the surgery, you said yourself the poison is still spreading.”