“Jerry,” Barrister Johnson’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and strictly professional. “I got your emergency message. I am reviewing the trust fund documents right now. If what you suspect is true, the default clause in the event of Maya’s passing would immediately transfer seventy percent of your liquid assets and the overseas real estate portfolio directly to Victoria’s name. It is an ironclad clause we drafted when you two married. But Jerry, we need proof. Accusing her without it will lead to a media circus that could tank the company’s stock by morning.”
“I am getting the proof, Johnson,” Jerry replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Just prepare the divorce papers and prepare a dossier for the Inspector General of Police. I want her locked away where the sun will never touch her skin.”
Jerry ended the call just as the heavy oak doors of the study creaked open.
One of his imposing security guards stepped inside, flanking a small, fragile figure.
It was Jonah.
The street boy had been brought back from the park exactly as promised. He stood in the center of the opulent room, his dusty sandals sinking into the imported Persian rug. He looked around, not with awe at the wealth, but with a cautious, calculated weariness, like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.
“Come sit down, Jonah,” Jerry said, his tone softening as he gestured to a plush leather armchair. “You are safe here. Nobody will hurt you.”
Jonah climbed into the massive chair, looking incredibly small but possessing a quiet strength that defied his age.
“The madam with the red hair is angry,” Jonah noted flatly. “I heard her shouting at the guards through the guest room door.”
“Let her shout,” Jerry said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jonah, I need you to think very carefully about what you saw through that kitchen window. You said she took the powder from a silver locket. Was there anyone else with her? Did she ever speak to anyone while she was doing it?”
Jonah frowned, his young face scrunching in deep thought.
“She was usually alone when she mixed the soup. But there is a woman who visits. A woman with glasses and a white car. The doctor.”
Jerry’s blood ran cold.
Dr. Helen.
Dr. Helen was the renowned pediatric ophthalmologist who had been treating Maya. She was the one who diagnosed the macular degeneration. She was the one who prescribed the expensive imported eye drops that never seemed to work.
“Yes,” Jonah nodded vigorously. “The doctor. Three days ago, I was hiding behind the hibiscus bushes near the back gate. The doctor came through the side entrance. Madam Victoria met her there. The doctor gave her a small brown envelope and said, ‘This is the last batch. If you use more than a pinch, her heart will stop before the blindness is permanent, and the autopsy will catch it.’ Madam Victoria gave the doctor a very thick envelope of dollars. Then they hugged.”
The revelation hit Jerry like a physical blow to the chest.
A gasp escaped his lips as he stumbled back against his desk.
It was not just Victoria. It was a conspiracy.
The very doctor tasked with saving his daughter’s sight was the architect of her destruction.
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