Page 81 of Ruthless Serenade

She must have memorized its location when she saw me using it. I’ve been fucking careless. There’s no other logical explanation.

Eva unlocks the safe with practiced ease and sweeps all the contents into her bag. Just then, her phone rings. She answers, looking as casual as can be, then replaces the key in the drawer. With her phone still at her ear, she walks out of my office.

But she forgets to lock the safe.

The footage returns to a still frame after that.

I check the date stamp in the upper corner of the footage. This was almost a month ago. Too long for me not to have noticed.

Jesus Christ, what a fuckup!

I need answers from her, and I need them yesterday. I snatch up my phone and punch in Eva’s number. I hold my breath as it rings, but she doesn’t answer. The phone just keeps ringing and ringing. My patience frays with each second, and I yank the phone from my ear to glare at the screen just as it clicks to voicemail.

Blyad!

I call again. It rings once, twice - seven damn rings, then voicemail.

On the third attempt, it dawns on me: she knows it’s me and isn’t picking up.

In a last-ditch move, I dial from another number. But still, nothing. Furious, I throw the phone down onto the desk, the sharp crack of it hitting the surface matching the frustration boiling inside me.

***

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings, but it’s not Eva calling me back. It’s Pavel.

"Turn on the TV," his voice crackles through the line. He’s clearly in distress and that puts me on edge.

"What the fuck,mudak? Why?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever news he’s about to break to me.

"Just do as I say, boss. You have to see this."

I crease my brow and grab the remote from the desk. As I flick on the TV and the screen bursts to life, a flashing red banner appears at the bottom.

"Breaking News: Psychiatric Patients Die from Illegal Drug."

My previous confusion turns to shock as I recognize Eva being interviewed by the presenter. I stare at the screen dumbly. Maybe I drank too much and my brain is fucked.

Then, I see the name on the screen: Dr. Rachel Anderson, clinical psychiatrist.

What in the everloving fuck is this shit?

I blink in confusion. Their resemblance is striking. She looks almost exactly like Eva. They share the same delicate features, but there’s something different about this Rachel-person’s steely gaze.

Rachel?

She’s Eva’s twin sister, dolboyob!

I gape at the screen in disbelief and I swear my goddamn heart almost stop beating in my chest.

"As a psychiatrist specializing in addictions, I need to raise awareness about this insidious drug, Tramoxine," she says, "Too many lives have been lost because of its easy availability and the numbers are increasing."

No.

Fucking.

Way.

My eyes are glued to the screen. The blood in my veins turns to ice as I watch Dr. Rachel Anderson continue her impassioned plea for stricter regulations. The drug I created to heal millions, the one I poured years of work into, is now being painted as a dangerous substance, an illegal threat to public safety. Every word she speaks tightens the noose around my neck. My life’s work, everything I’ve built, everything I’ve fought for, crumbles at my feet like a stack of brittle cards, collapsing under the weight of a single blow.

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