The Lins' estate had barely begun to feel familiar when another call from the hospital shattered the calm.
It was Amelia.
Amelia Smith.
The adoptive sister who once sneered at Isabella's existence now sounded desperate on the other end of the phone.
"She's collapsing again!" Amelia's voice cracked. "Your—your grandmother! They don't know what to do. You have to come—please!"
Isabella had barely unpacked. She should have ignored it.
But she didn't.
Because the one person who had ever truly loved her lay in a hospital bed, clinging to life—and that mattered more than blood.
"Wait, you're leaving now?" Clarissa asked as Isabella crossed the foyer, already grabbing her coat.
"Yes," Isabella said simply.
Edward frowned. "Is it urgent?"
"It's about the woman who raised me," she said, voice soft but unyielding. "I'm going."
Before they could press, she was gone.
Mr. Grant was waiting beside the car, looking surprised. "Back to Royal Mercy?"
"Yes," Isabella said. "Fast."
Victor Blackwood had been standing in the front parlor, about to leave when he heard the doors slam.
His eyes narrowed.
"Where is she going?" he asked Alexander Lin, who had watched the scene from above the staircase.
Alexander shrugged. "To see her old family, I think. Something about her grandmother."
Victor didn't wait for details.
He made a silent call.
"Track the Lins' car. I want to know where she's headed. Discreetly."
The hospital was already chaos when Isabella arrived.
Mildred's heart monitor was spiking erratically. A nurse attempted to stabilize her oxygen mask, but her fingers trembled too much.
"Vitals are dropping fast!"
"Where the hell is the specialist?!"
Isabella shoved open the door.
Amelia stood to the side, pale and tear-streaked, as if only now realizing what it meant to care.
Isabella stepped in without hesitation.
"Move," she ordered.
The attending nurse gasped. "We've called—"
"I don't need your attending. I need five minutes and a sterile kit. Now."
"But who are you?"
Isabella didn't answer. She had already pulled on gloves, eyes locked on the readings.
Blood pressure: plummeting. Oxygen: 79%. Heart rate: erratic.
She examined Mildred's chest—fluid retention. Her lungs were constricting.
She turned to Amelia. "She's been showing signs of fluid accumulation for days. You said nothing?"
"I— I didn't know!"
Isabella grabbed a scalpel. "Then stay back."
In three swift, calculated incisions, Isabella inserted a narrow tube and began to drain the fluid manually.
The room held its breath.
Mildred's chest slowly rose—then fell—in a smoother rhythm.
The monitors calmed.
Stabilized.
Alive.
Isabella exhaled, but her expression never changed.
She turned to Amelia. "You had one job. Watch over her. You failed."
Amelia was crying now. "I didn't mean to—"
"I don't care what you meant."
Isabella's voice was steel.
"Be grateful I came."
In the hallway, Victor stood silently beside a shadowed column.
He had arrived minutes ago, followed her inside unnoticed. And now, he watched from a distance as nurses murmured about the mysterious girl who had saved not one—but two patients in critical condition.
No name. No license. Just presence.
"Find out what name she used to check in," Victor ordered his assistant quietly over the phone.
"But sir, she's—"
"Do it," he said, voice laced with a dark curiosity. "And find out where she learned to perform thoracentesis without flinching."
Back inside the room, Isabella touched Mildred's hand gently.
Her grandmother stirred.
"Dove…"
"I'm here," Isabella whispered. "I'll always be here."
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Draven.
"You saved someone again today, didn't you?"
Her blood ran cold.
How did he know?
She stared at the screen, a single name echoing in her mind.
Victor.
Was it him?
Was she finally standing at the edge of the truth?