Anya’s breath hitched, a phantom echo of the terror from moments ago.
Relief, sharp and sweet, coursed through her veins. St. Jude’s was safe. Natasha was safe. The bomb threat, a cruel, elaborate hoax, had shattered their peace only to return it, fragile but intact.
Elias gripped her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “He’s playing games, Anya. Alistair wants to rattle us.”
“He almost succeeded,” she admitted, her voice still a little shaky.
Back in Elias’s penthouse, the city lights blurred outside the panoramic windows. His security team had swept the hospital, found nothing, then evacuated. Now, they were debriefing, their faces grim.
Suddenly, the secure line on Elias’s desk phone lit up. A low, urgent buzz.
He answered, his expression hardening with each word he heard. Anya watched his jaw clench, a muscle jumping in his temple.
“When? How long ago?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
He slammed the receiver down, his eyes locking onto Anya’s. A cold dread seeped into her bones, chilling her to the core.
“Natasha,” he bit out, the single word laden with menace. “She’s gone.”
No. It couldn’t be. Not after everything. Anya shook her head, disbelieving.
“What do you mean, gone?” she whispered, her throat tight.
“The nurse on duty… she’s in shock. Said a man, dressed as a hospital orderly, presented a transfer form. Insisted Natasha needed immediate transport for a ‘specialized neurological assessment’ at another facility.”
Terror clawed its way up Anya’s throat. “A transfer? Without me? Without my authorization?”
“It was a forged document, meticulously done. Exploited the chaos from the bomb scare. Everyone was distracted, stressed. The nurse remembers his voice, his steady demeanor. He was very convincing.”
Elias was already barking orders into his comms. “Lock down St. Jude’s. Get security footage. Every camera. Every angle. Trace every vehicle that left the premises in the last hour.”
Her world tilted. Natasha. Her little sister. The only family she had left. Snatching her, right from under their noses.
“Alistair,” Anya breathed, the name a venomous hiss. This wasn't about data anymore. This was personal. This was pure, calculated cruelty.
Racing back to the hospital, Anya’s heart hammered against her ribs. Elias drove, the expensive car a blur through the night. The city seemed to mock her, its indifferent glow a stark contrast to the darkness consuming her.
St. Jude’s was a frantic scene. Police cruisers, their lights painting the building in strobing blue and red, surrounded the entrance. Detectives moved with grim purpose.
Charging inside, Anya ignored the uniformed officers trying to stop her. She found the nurses’ station a mess of distraught staff and anxious security.
Ms. Davies, Natasha’s primary nurse, sat hunched over, shaking. Her face was pale, streaked with tears.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Vandalova,” she sobbed, looking up at Anya with wide, haunted eyes. “He was so convincing. He had the right codes, the right forms. He said it was an emergency transfer, a new trial drug for her condition.”
Anya knelt, forcing herself to be calm. “It’s not your fault, Ms. Davies. Describe him. Anything.”
“Tall… dark hair… a scar, I think, just above his eyebrow. He kept his head down, but his voice… so calm. He seemed to know everything about Natasha’s case.”
Elias pulled up the security footage on a tablet. The image flickered, grainy but clear enough. An orderly, nondescript, pushing Natasha’s wheelchair out of her room. The time stamp confirmed it: barely fifteen minutes after the all-clear for the bomb threat.
He moved with a practiced ease, blending into the post-evacuation chaos. No sudden movements. No overt aggression. Just a calm, professional demeanor that disarmed anyone who might have questioned him.
Natasha, still weak, looked confused but not distressed in the footage. She was too accustomed to transfers, to new doctors, to hospital protocols. She trusted the uniform.
Watching the image, Anya’s stomach churned. The methodical precision of it all. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment act. This was planned, exploiting the very vulnerability they had just survived.
Elias’s team was already cross-referencing staff rosters, looking for anyone matching the description, anyone with a recent hiring date or suspicious background. Nothing. The orderly wasn't on the books.
“A ghost,” Elias murmured, his eyes narrowed. “A ghost in a uniform. Alistair’s specialty.”
Hours later, the frantic search yielded nothing. No leads. No witnesses outside the hospital. The vehicle, a generic white van, had vanished without a trace into the sprawling city.
Anya felt hollow, a desperate ache spreading through her chest. Her sister, gone. Taken by the very man who threatened Elias.
She sat in Elias’s office, the opulent space feeling suffocating. He paced, his movements tight with restrained fury. “He wants to break us, Anya. He wants to see us crumble.”
“He won’t,” Anya vowed, her voice raw. “We will find her.”
Suddenly, her phone buzzed. A notification. Not a call, but a message. An unknown number.
Her heart leaped into her throat. She fumbled for the device, her fingers trembling. Elias stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on her.
A single video file. She tapped it, her breath held captive in her lungs.
The screen flickered to life. A dimly lit room, sparse and cold. And there she was. Natasha.
Natasha was sitting on a plain cot, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes, wide and terrified, darted around the unfamiliar space.
Her usually vibrant face was pale, her lips quivering. A whimper escaped her, almost inaudible, but Anya heard it, felt it, like a knife twisting in her gut.
Natasha looked straight into the camera, tears tracking silent paths down her cheeks, a silent plea in her gaze. She was scared. Truly, utterly terrified.
Then, a voice, calm and chillingly familiar, spoke from off-screen. It was distorted, mechanical, but the underlying cadence was unmistakable. Alistair Thorne.
“Your sister, Vandalova, is… comfortable. For now.”
Anya's knuckles turned white around her phone. Her eyes burned, but no tears would come. Only a cold, consuming rage.
“The price for her freedom is Elias Thorne’s downfall. Your choice, Vandalova.” The video ended, leaving only the image of Natasha’s terrified face seared into Anya’s mind.
Her choice. Betray Elias, or condemn Natasha. The ultimate, impossible ultimatum.