Page 47 of The Reckoning
“It means,” Dr. Winters says, stepping forward with professional detachment, “that we can proceed as planned, with or without your cooperation. Though cooperation would make things considerably easier for everyone involved.”
The clinical way he discusses overriding my bodily autonomy sends a chill down my spine. I’ve known this man my entire life—he’s given me lollipops after checkups, called me “his brave little patient,” and has been a constant presence during every health “crisis” I’ve experienced. And now he stands here, calmlyinforming me that my consent is merely a convenience, not a necessity.
“What exactly is this procedure?” Arson asks, his voice carrying just the right note of concerned stepbrother, not revealing the rage I can feel radiating from him. “If you expect her to cooperate, surely you can explain what’s going to happen.”
Dr. Winters and Mother exchange glances, that silent communication that has always excluded me from decisions about my own body.
“It’s a specialized treatment,” Dr. Winters explains finally, his tone taking on that patronizing quality reserved for difficult patients. “A targeted therapy developed specifically for Lilian’s condition. It will stabilize her cardiac rhythm permanently, eliminating the need for most of her current medications.”
It sounds reasonable enough on the surface, but years of half-truths and manipulation have taught me to listen for what isn’t being said. Like how this miraculous treatment has never been mentioned before. Like why it’s suddenly so urgent. Like what donations have to do with it.
“And if it doesn’t work?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice remains. “What are the risks?”
Another glance between them. Mother steps forward, taking control of the narrative as she always does.
“There are minimal risks,” she says smoothly. “The procedure has been extensively tested and has shown remarkable results. You have nothing to worry about.”
Tested on whom?I want to ask. On other people like me? On people like Arson, hidden away in facilities no one talks about?
I take a deep breath, forcing my racing thoughts into order. I need time. We need time to figure out what’s really happening and what they’re planning to do to me.
“I need some time to process this,” I say, letting some of my genuine distress show through. “This is all so sudden.”
“The procedure is scheduled for tomorrow morning,” Dr. Winters reminds me, already packing away his equipment like the matter is settled. “Eight a.m. sharp.”
“Tomorrow?” I shake my head, seizing on the one card I have left to play. “That’s impossible. I have exams and papers due. I can’t just disappear from campus for…how long will the recovery take?”
“A few days, perhaps a week,” Dr. Winters says. “Your professors will understand. Medical emergencies take precedence over academics.”
“I need to wrap things up properly,” I insist, letting a note of panic enter my voice. It’s not entirely feigned—the thought of being forced into some unknown medical procedure is terrifying. “I can’t just leave everything hanging. I have group projects and responsibilities.”
Mother sighs, the long-suffering sound she makes when I’m being particularly difficult. “Lilian?—”
“Please,” I interrupt, hating the pleading in my voice but knowing it’s necessary. “Just a little time. A week. Let me get my academic affairs in order. The procedure will be easier if I’m not stressed about school, right?” I direct this last question to Dr. Winters, appealing to his medical authority.
He considers this, then nods reluctantly. “Stress can complicate medical procedures. A short delay would not be catastrophic.”
Mother’s lips thin with displeasure, but she recognizes when she’s outnumbered. “Fine. One week. The procedure will be rescheduled for next Friday. But no more delays after that, understood?”
Relief washes through me, so powerful I have to lock my knees to keep from sagging. “Understood. Thank you.”
“In the meantime,” Dr. Winters adds, removing a prescription pad from his bag, “I want you on your full medication regimen. No skipping doses, no exceptions.”
He scribbles something and hands the paper to Mother, not me. Like I’m a child incapable of managing my own medication. Which, according to that power of attorney, is exactly what I am in their eyes.
“We’ll see you next Friday,” Mother says, the words carrying the weight of command rather than suggestion. “Eight a.m. Don’t be late.”
“We should go,” Arson murmurs, his hand still on my shoulder. “You look tired.”
It’s an escape route, offered at the perfect time. I nod, playing into the role of the exhausted invalid they’ve cast me as for so long. “Yes, I am. It’s been…a lot to take in.”
“I’ll have your prescriptions filled and sent to your apartment,” Mother says, moving toward the door. Her message is clear: we’re dismissed.
All I can feel is relief that she’s not making me stay here, locking me in my room. Hell, forcing Dr. Winters to sedate me until Friday rolls around. But I think she doesn’t want to push in front of who she thinks is Aries.
We leave without further conversation, the silence between us heavy with unspoken words as we walk through the grand foyer toward the front door. I keep my head down, playing the part of the subdued daughter until we’re safely outside, the door closing behind us with a decisive click.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we walk to the car, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. Neither of us speaks until we’re inside the vehicle, doors locked, a barrier of metal and glass between us and the Hayes mansion.
