Weeks dragged on, each day a new battle against the invisible enemy. The firm was bleeding money, and hope felt like a luxury.
Then, an anonymous, encrypted message appeared in my inbox. It was short, precise: “Café du Monde, Tuesday, 3 PM. Come alone.”
My heart hammered. Was it a trap?
I went. The cafe was bustling, the aroma of coffee heavy in the air. A woman sat at a corner table, her back to the window. As she turned, I recognized her instantly.
Dr. Eleanor Albright. Reggie’s personal physician, a highly respected figure in the city’s medical and philanthropic circles. Her face was pale, her hands clasped tightly on the table.
She motioned for me to sit. “Ms. Jensen,” she began, her voice a hushed whisper, “I know you’re wondering why I’m here.”
I kept my expression neutral, my pulse quickening.
“I was at the gala,” she confessed, her eyes darting around the room. “I saw what Reginald did to your son.”
My breath hitched. My hands clenched under the table.
“It wasn’t just a temper tantrum,” she continued, leaning closer. “Reginald suffers from a rare, progressive neurological condition. It causes severe, uncontrollable outbursts. He’s been hiding it for years, meticulously.”
The air left my lungs. A neurological condition? This wasn’t just about arrogance. This was something far deeper, far more dangerous, and Reggie had kept it a devastating secret.
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