The Deal with My Doctors.
The scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of machines were the soundtrack of my new reality. The days bled into each other, each moment filled with silence.
My body, though bruised and battered from the accident, was nothing compared to the cage I had built for myself in my mind. I was paralyzed, mute, helpless—at least, that's what everyone thought.
I hadn't been in an accident at all. This wasn't a tragedy. It was the beginning of a meticulously planned strategy. Every bruise, every stitch, every bruised joint—was part of the act.
The game I have just begin was one of patience, precision, and above all, control. It was the kind of control I had never had with Henry, but I had now.
He had made the mistake of underestimating me. And I would make him pay for it.
But I couldn't execute my plans alone. I needed allies in this. I needed the right people on my side—people who believed I was incapable of hurting them, people who thought they were helping a broken woman.
And, conveniently, the hospital staff was the perfect group of pawns to play my game.
---
It wasn't long before I caught wind of the whispers among the nurses. A few days into my stay, a few discreet inquiries revealed that the doctors assigned to my case were not as committed to the truth as I had hoped.
They were susceptible—every one of them was vulnerable to my manipulation. And that was my opening.
The first doctor I focused on was Dr. Randall, the neurologist. He was in his mid-forties, with dark circles under his eyes that seemed to betray his exhaustion. His cold, analytical nature made him perfect for the role I needed him to play.
He was a man who valued efficiency over empathy, who could be bought with the right amount of pressure. And pressure was something I had plenty of.
I couldn't speak to him. Not directly, anyway. But I didn't need to. My iPad was my voice now, my only form of communication. And that was enough to get things started.
It was late afternoon when Dr. Randall entered my room for his daily assessment. He stood at the foot of my bed, his eyes scanning the various machines and notes that had been attached to me over the last few days.
The rain outside drummed steadily against the windows, a backdrop to the quiet tension building between us.
I had been silent all day, a perfectly motionless figure in my hospital gown. The doctors and nurses had grown used to my silence, to my lack of reaction. No one questioned it; they assumed I had suffered some kind of brain injury, one too severe to allow for coherent speech. And that was how I wanted them to think.
Dr. Randall began speaking, his voice clinical as he reviewed my chart. "Sophia, I need you to let me know if you're experiencing any discomfort." His eyes met mine for a brief moment before he returned to his clipboard.
"We'll be conducting more tests tomorrow, just to make sure there are no lingering issues from the accident."
I glanced at the iPad resting on the bed beside me. Slowly, I reached for it, my fingers trembling only slightly. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was acting, that this was all a game. I typed my first message slowly:
"No discomfort. Please don't test me further. I don't want to speak."
I hit send and watched him read it. His brows furrowed in confusion, but I could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes. He was not a fool.
He had seen plenty of patients who faked symptoms before. And something in him—something cold and pragmatic—told him that this was more than just a simple accident. But what would he do? What could he do?
Dr. Randall set down his clipboard and walked closer to the bed. I didn't move, didn't even blink. I was the picture of stillness. Finally, he sighed.
He leaned over, speaking softly, as if not wanting to disturb the quiet of the room.
"I understand, Sophia. You don't want to talk. But I have to tell you—your condition isn't as dire as it may seem. You're physically fine. There's no lasting damage to your spine or brain. But I believe you're holding back. You can't keep up this charade forever. Eventually, it'll catch up to you."
I let the words sink in, but I made no move to acknowledge them. He wasn't asking me questions, and I wasn't going to provide him with any answers. Not yet.
He lingered by my bedside, as though unsure of what to do next. His hesitation spoke volumes. He wasn't convinced I was telling the truth, but he wasn't willing to confront me just yet. He knew I was hiding something. And I would let him. Because the more I hid, the more power I gained.
---
The next day, I made my move.
I knew the nurse assigned to me—Lynn. She was young, eager to please, and just the type of person I needed on my side. Over the course of the last few days, I'd made small talk with her, enough to establish a rapport.
I had her fooled into thinking I was just another patient in need of sympathy. I could sense the vulnerability in her, the need for validation. I could use that.
I had my assistant, who had been loyal to me for years, send a discreet message to Lynn, arranging a private meeting under the pretense of a routine procedure.
It was simple, really. All I needed was for Lynn to believe that I had someone in my corner—someone who could help her.
The opportunity presented itself in the early evening when the hospital grew quiet. I had been left alone in my room, the nurses and doctors assuming I was simply recovering. They didn't know that I was already taking control of my situation.
Lynn entered the room at precisely the right time, her movements brisk but not hurried. She smiled when she saw me lying still in bed, her voice soft as she approached.
"How are you feeling today, Sophia?" she asked, adjusting the iv drip on my arm.
I didn't respond, of course. Instead, I slowly reached for the iPad and began typing.
"I need your help. There's something I need to tell you. It's important."
Lynn raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She had grown accustomed to my silence, but the request to communicate in writing piqued her curiosity. She leaned in closer, her face softening with concern.
"Of course, what do you need?"
I took a deep breath—one that was slow enough to appear weak—and typed out the next message.
"I can't do this alone. I need you to help me. You're the only one who can."
She seemed hesitant, her eyes flicking around the room before she whispered, "What do you mean?
Help you with what?" She asked.
I held her eyes as I typed the words that would change everything.
"I need you to help me get the doctors on my side. I know you're afraid of losing your job. But you don't have to. I'll take care of you, Lynn. You just have to help me."
I saw the shift in her. Her breath caught, and I could tell she was weighing the risk. The hospital staff was bound by rules, by ethics—but everyone had their price. And I could already sense that Lynn had a price, one that could be easily paid.
"I—I don't know…" she stammered, clearly torn.
"You're scared," I typed quickly. "I get it. But you don't have to be. If you help me, I'll make sure you get what you want. Money, favors, anything."
She hesitated again, but her gaze flickered to the door, as though checking for anyone else. The hesitation was enough to tell me that she was seriously considering it.
"I can't promise anything," she whispered. "But maybe we can talk more later. You don't have to do this alone."
It was the opening I needed. I smiled to myself, the curve of my lips a victorious one. I had her.
---
I knew the plan was still in its early stages, but it was moving forward. Dr. Randall was my first target. And Lynn, my unwitting ally, would be the key to unlocking the rest.
With their help, I would secure my position, my revenge, and my eventual triumph over the man who had betrayed me.
The walls of this hospital were just another part of the cage Henry had built for me. But I had every intention of breaking free—of making sure everyone, especially Henry, knew who the real power was.