Chapter 3 - DR. WOLFE’S REPORT
Dr. Adrian Wolfe arrived at the estate at 9:05 the next morning.
He did not know the toxicology had been performed.
Good.
Lucian wanted to hear him talk before he understood the room had changed.
Wolfe was fifty-eight.
Elegant.
Careful.
The sort of physician whose private patients included politicians, celebrities, and families wealthy enough to buy privacy.
He entered the library carrying a leather medical bag.
Then saw Elena.
His smile changed.
“Why is she here?”
Lucian answered:
“She’s my nurse.”
“I requested privacy.”
“I didn’t.”
Wolfe sat.
He began with routine questions.
Sleep.
Pain.
Appetite.
Mood.
Then:
“After last night’s episode, I think we need to revisit cognitive rest.”
Lucian’s eyes sharpened.
“Episode?”
“Emotional dysregulation.”
Elena almost laughed.
Lucian did not.
“My fiancée slapped me.”
Wolfe cleared his throat.
“I’m aware there was conflict.”
“She overturned my chair.”
“I didn’t witness—”
“There’s video.”
Silence.
Then Lucian asked:
“What exactly are you treating me with?”
Wolfe frowned.
“You know your regimen.”
“Tell me.”
Wolfe listed medications.
Pain control.
Muscle spasm management.
Sleep support.
Supplements.
No sedative matching the toxicology.
Lucian slid the report across the desk.
Wolfe stopped.
Then picked it up.
His face changed only slightly.
Too slightly.
“What is this?”
“My blood.”
“Who ordered this?”
“I did.”
“No.”
Elena spoke.
“An independent physician did.”
Wolfe looked at her.
Hostility arrived instantly.
“That was irresponsible.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know his full history.”
“Then explain the result.”
Wolfe looked back at Lucian.
“That medication may have remained in your system from an earlier prescription.”
“When was it prescribed?”
Wolfe opened his tablet.
Scrolled.
Too long.
Then:
“Approximately four months ago.”
Elena said:
“That compound would not remain detectable from a dose four months ago.”
Wolfe’s face hardened.
“I know pharmacology.”
“So do I.”
Lucian lifted one hand.
Enough.
Then:
“Did you prescribe it recently?”
“No.”
“Did anyone in your practice?”
“I’ll check.”
“Did Vivienne ask you about medication?”
Wolfe looked at him.
“Your fiancée often asks about your care.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
“What did she ask?”
“Whether anything could help anxiety before public events.”
Elena stared.
“When?”
Wolfe became careful.
“I don’t remember exact dates.”
Then Lucian said:
“Marco.”
The security chief placed a printed photograph on the table.
Vivienne.
Wolfe.
Outside the rehabilitation clinic.
Three days before the crash.
Wolfe looked genuinely surprised.
Good.
Maybe not everything was rehearsed.
Lucian asked:
“What were you discussing?”
Wolfe stared at the photograph.
“I don’t remember.”
“You were photographed with my fiancée three days before the accident that put me in this chair.”
“That clinic treats dozens of private patients.”
“And Elias Mercer?”
That did it.
Wolfe’s face emptied.
Elena saw it.
Lucian saw it.
Marco saw it.
Wolfe reached for his bag.
“I think this conversation should continue through counsel.”
Correct.
He stood.
Lucian did not stop him.
“Good idea.”
Wolfe paused.
Then left.
Elena looked at Lucian.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You guessed.”
“Yes.”
“What is Mercer to him?”
“I intend to find out.”
Independent counsel subpoenaed records where legally appropriate.
Vain Holdings’ board initiated a formal review of Wolfe’s involvement.
Meanwhile, Lucian’s treatment transferred to an academic rehabilitation team with no prior family connection.
That team reviewed eight months of records.
The findings were uncomfortable.
His injuries were real.
Severe.
His prognosis had never guaranteed independent walking.
But several recent setbacks might have been worsened by:
Over-sedation.
Poor medication coordination.
Excessive bracing.
Interrupted physical therapy.
Inconsistent sleep.
No miracle cure.
No conspiracy-induced paralysis.
Just a recovery environment that had become medically chaotic in ways that always seemed to weaken Lucian’s capacity before important business decisions.
Then the brace specialist examined his equipment.
The left knee brace had been repeatedly tightened beyond recommended tension.
Not enough to cause permanent damage.
Enough to increase pain and make gait training harder.
Who adjusted it most often?
Wolfe’s rehab technician.
And Vivienne.
Lucian laughed when told.
No humor.
“I let her touch everything.”
Elena stood beside him.
“You trusted her.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Trust is not stupidity.”
“Poor trust is.”
“Then learn.”
She regretted the sharpness.
Until Lucian smiled.
“Still ordering me around.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Then Marco entered.
He carried an envelope.
“Found Mercer.”
Everyone turned.
Alive.
Elias Mercer was sixty-nine years old.
Living under his middle name in Wisconsin.
Retired.
No criminal record.
No mysterious underground existence.
Just a man who had spent eleven years hiding from the Reyes family.
Why?
Because somebody had tried to kill him once.
May you like
And according to Mercer—
that somebody had been Lucian’s father.
