I'm the Fake Heiress? Time to Reveal My 100 Identities! Free Preview

"Helen, the Morgans have raised you for 20 years. We've done more than enough. Sign the papers."

Jacob Morgan slid a thick stack of legal documents across the mahogany desk toward her.

Then, with a detached calm, he pushed a check across the polished surface. "Here's 500,000 dollars," he said flatly. "Consider it compensation. After all, we were father and daughter once."

Helen stood before the desk, the faint scent of lavender drifting in the air. A cold, derisive smile touched her eyes.

"Five Hundred thousand?" Her lips curved in a mocking arc. "To buy out two decades? Am I really that cheap in your eyes, Jacob? Or is this paltry sum all the mighty Morgans can actually scrape together?"

Three months ago, the Morgans had discovered Helen wasn't their biological daughter. They'd spent a small fortune to track down and finally found her—Lydia Morgan.

The real daughter of the Morgans had come home.

With their biological daughter now home, Helen, who had been dumped in the countryside as a child and only brought back four years ago, had become disposable trash.

"What? Five hundred grand's not good enough for you?" Sienna Blyth's face twisted with disgust, her manicured nails tapping sharply against the desk. "Your real family in that backwater town would need years to earn that! Stop being ungrateful and sign it! Once you do, you and the Morgans are through. Clean break!"

"Mom, please, don't say that ... " It was true what they said—money refines a person. Two months back in the mansion and she was already picture-perfect: hair curled to perfection, wearing designer tweed and diamond earrings that sparkled under the sunlight.

Her face was sweet and gentle, her voice laced with honey. "Helen has been accustomed to a certain life for so many years, living in a mansion as a wealthy heiress. It's only natural she'd be reluctant to go back to ... rural living."

She'd heard all about Helen's origins. Dirt poor.

A bedridden grandfather, a deadbeat unemployed father, and three brothers who couldn't afford to get married.

The whole family was practically a nest of parasites.

Helen would probably be sold off for money the moment she returned.

A smug satisfaction curled inside Lydia. She deliberately emphasized the word "rural," all while studying Helen's reaction.

When her eyes fell on Helen's face, exquisitely stunning even in the harsh afternoon light, a flicker of pure envy shot through her.

She tilted her head, voice still syrupy-sweet. "I did hear your family lives in one of those ... low-income neighborhoods? But still, blood's thicker than water. Better to go home to your real family than staying here where you have to beg for kindness, right?"

She stressed the word "real," lacing it with triumphant glee.

The whole performance was so theatrically pathetic it almost made Helen laugh aloud. "Is that what happens when you spend too long in the gutter, Lydia? Forgetting basic manners now that you're back among the civilized?"

Helen's cool gaze swept over her. "Can't complain; I suppose it's in the blood."

That one line sliced clean through all three Morgans at once.

Sienna's face went red. She slammed a palm on the desk and shot to her feet, ready to explode.

But Helen's composed voice cut in. "I'll sign."

Sienna's tirade died in her throat.

Helen picked up the pen. She didn't bother reading a single clause.

The nib touched the paper, and in three swift, flowing strokes, she signed her name.

Helen Walcott. The name flowed from the pen in sharp, elegant strokes—unhesitating, unregretful, final.

When she finished, she flicked the pen aside carelessly.

It clattered against the papers.

Her slender fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the check.

Watching this, Sienna's eyes filled with contempt. See?

As expected. Poor genes will always be trashy, after all.

So easily bought off by a mere 500,000.

But then ...

Helen picked up the check.

With a deft snap of her fingers, she sent the slip of paper fluttering through the air to smack Jacob squarely in the face.

Her voice, cold and clear, followed. "Keep that 500,000 of yours. Consider it my contribution. Save it so you Morgans can buy your own graves."

The check plastered on Jacob's face felt like a stinging slap to the entire family.

"Helen!" Jacob ripped it off, his face red with fury.

He stared at her disbelievingly.

Was this the same girl who once bowed and scraped before them, dying for tiny bits of love and attention?

Since when had she grown a spine?

Helen's eyes were steady, emotionless.

She turned, walking away with calm, lethal grace.

For the Morgans, she felt nothing.

Once, she had craved their love.

When she'd first been brought back to the Morgans, she'd worked her butt off—always treading carefully, bending over backwards to please them, all so that she could fit in.

She lived her life like a puppy desperate for her owners' approval.

She'd even studied herbal remedies and aromatherapy to soothe their ailments—all just to earn their approval.

To fulfill Jacob's ambition of elevating the family's status, she'd leveraged her own connections to pave the Morgans' way, clearing every obstacle for them.

But in the end, what did she get?

Criticism. Contempt. Dismissal.

All that desperate hope and grovelling effort had become one big joke.

The moment Lydia returned, they couldn't wait to kick her out, to make room for their precious blood.

That was the day something in her shattered for good.

The study door clicked shut.

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

Then Sienna burst out, voice trembling with rage. "What the hell was that supposed to mean? Who is she to disrespect us like that?!"

Jacob scowled, looking down at the crumpled check in his hand. The image of Helen's cold, resolute figure flickered in his mind.

"Enough!" he snapped coldly. "You got what you wanted. The agreement is signed. Drop it."

"Oh, so now it's my fault?" Sienna shot back. "I did this for Lydia! Who knows what Helen's real family might have left her? She's an outsider! Why should she get a single cent of the Morgans' fortune that belongs to Lydia?"

Sienna trembled with rage. "Lydia spent 20 years out there suffering while that imposter lived like a princess in her place. Just thinking about it breaks my heart!"

"Mom ... "

Lydia's eyes welled up with tears. She clung to Sienna's arm. "I know you did it all for me. But it's only because I came back that Helen had to ... "

She sniffled, her nose pink. "Mom, I should go after her. See her off."

Sienna softened instantly. "You really are too kind, darling."

By the time Lydia caught up, Helen was at the door, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her other hand rummaging inside for something.

"Helen!"

Lydia hurried over, a mask of contrition plastered on her face. "I'm so sorry, Helen. I just wanted to come home, to be with Mom and Dad. I never meant to take anything from you.

"I really did try to convince them to let you stay, but ... they were just so worried I'd feel displaced, so you got the short end of the stick ...

"And Sean ... "

Her eyes curved into happy crescents.

From an angle shielded from the watching staff, her eyes met Helen's with naked challenge. "Sean said he wants all of Veridia to know I'm his fiancée. We're having a huge engagement party in three months.

"I heard you were pursuing him for the longest time before I came back. You ... you don't hate me for it, do you, Helen?"

Helen froze for a second, then slowly looked up.

Those calm, deep eyes held no ripple of emotion—nothing but pure, unadulterated indifference, laced with a hint of lofty condescension, as if looking down at an ant from the clouds.

"Congratulations," she said at last, lips curving faintly.

Her tone was cool, almost pitying. "You can have him. You're just picking up trash that I'd thrown away."

The word trash froze the smile on Lydia's face into something ugly and jagged. Her sweet expression warped into a snarl.

The sheer, icy condescension in Helen's eyes was worse than any screamed insult.

It felt like ... every single thing she had fought so hard to steal was nothing but worthless garbage in the other girl's sight.

"Oh, and one more thing," Helen added, her gaze sweeping dismissively over the gilded foyer before landing back on Lydia with a derisive chuckle. "That precious Morgan title you cling to ... and that fiancé you worked so hard to snare ... "

Her lips curved into a sharper, almost wicked smile. "Hold on to them tight, Lydia. Make sure you never let go."

Lydia went pale; fury twisted her features until they were almost unrecognizable.

She swung at Helen—an instinctive, furious slap—then froze as she caught sight of a shadow at the doorway.

In an instant, she transformed. Stumbling back like a frightened doe, she crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, her eyes welling up with tears. "Helen, I ... I just wanted to apologize, to ask you not to hate Mom and Dad ... H-How could you ... "

Helen!

Seeing her treasured daughter on the floor, she rushed over and roared, her voice full of outrage, "After everything we've done for you, how dare you lay a hand on Lydia?!"

Helen watched Sienna gently wrap her arms around her precious daughter, her face a mask of maternal concern. A flicker of irony crossed Helen's eyes.

If this had happened months ago, she might have crumbled, questioned herself, and tried harder to get their approval.

But whatever need had driven her before had long since died.

"You're just in time."

She reached into her canvas duffel and pulled out a small red velvet jewelry box.

With a dull clack, she dropped it at Sienna's feet.

The lid flipped open, and a gaudy pearl necklace rattled out.

"Return to sender."

It was the necklace Sienna had offhandedly given her for her 18th birthday.

Even then, young Helen had known it wasn't chosen with her in mind.

Yet, she had treasured it like a priceless heirloom.

Now? Not anymore.

Sienna looked down at the pearls, bewildered. She couldn't even recall when she ever bought such a thing, or when she gave it to Helen.

But the gesture itself—throwing her gift back at her feet—was a blatant slap in the face.

"What are you doing, Helen? You lived my daughter's life for 20 years! What right do you have to act like this?"

"I was an infant. I had no say. The real question is, how does a mother not recognize her own child?" Helen's laugh was a short, cold sound. "Maybe you should schedule a full checkup, Sienna. I bet you wouldn't want that kind of blindness running in the family. Right?"

Sienna's face darkened. Her voice sharpened into a scream of indignation. "You vicious little—! So this is your true self! You were pretending this whole time! Now that we don't need you, you throw off the act!

"You ungrateful wretch! You belong back in the countryside! Living a low life is what suits you best!

"Don't you ever dare come crawling back to this family!"

Helen's gaze was ice. A slow, dangerous smile touched her crimson lips. It was a razor-edged thing, sharp with mockery and cold with a sub-zero finality.

The sheer intensity of it made Sienna falter, a shiver of fear running down her spine as she instinctively took a step back.

"Who would want to?" Helen's voice dripped with contempt.

"What do you mean by that?!" Sienna shrieked, incredulous and furious.

"What I mean is ... the Morgans you're so proud of mean nothing to me." Helen's smile widened, a beautiful, chilling thing. "Let me put it simply: You're a fucking idiot, Sienna."

Sienna's righteous fury nearly toppled her into hysteria. Her usually composed face was purple with rage.

She pointed at Helen, ready to tear into her, when Lydia clutched Sienna's arm, eyes wet and trembling. "Helen, please ... just blame me. Hit me, yell at me—anything. I don't care ... But you can't treat Mom and Dad this way.

"I grew up without parents. And now ... I just found them. Please, don't make Mom sick with anger ... That hurts me."

She sniffled pitifully.

The appeal landed like a knife in Sienna's heart.

Oh dear, how thoughtful you are, she thought. After all the hardship you've been through, you still think of others. That proves just how pure our bloodline is..

Competely different from that vicious, ungrateful viper!

Her gaze at Helen turned pure venom.

Suddenly, Helen laughed.

Then, before anyone could react, she stepped forward two measured paces and struck Lydia across the face.

The slap cracked through the air like a pistol shot.

Lydia cradled her rapidly reddening face, staring at Helen in utter shock.

Helen ... slapped her?

That Helen, who had always been as meek as a mouse in this house, dared to hit her?

Has she gone insane?!

"Helen!" Sienna's scream shredded the air. How dare this vile cunt strike her precious baby right in front of her?

It was as if she had slapped Sienna herself.

She flung up a hand to strike back, fury granting her speed.

Helen caught Sienna's wrist effortlessly, then yanked her away, sending the woman stumbling forward like a marionette with her strings cut.

She crashed into Lydia behind Helen.

The two of them went down in a tangled, ungainly heap on the cold marble floor.

Helen looked down at them, a portrait of icy elegance amidst their chaos.

The expression on her face was one of cold amusement—an almost predatory brightness that made the contours of her face dangerously beautiful.

"You asked for this," Helen reminded Lydia, her tone mockingly sweet. "You wanted to play the innocent victim. I'm just helping you perfect the role."

When Lydia had first returned, Helen had genuinely tried to get along with her.

She had bent over backwards, acquiescing to every whim, hoping to build a sisterly bond.

But Lydia had weaponized innocence, delivering a flawless damsel-in-distress act. Her teary confessions and staged fragility skillfully turned the entire Morgans against Helen, stoking their disdain day by day.

Helen had endured it all—only because she cared, because she didn't want to put the Morgans in a difficult position.

When she cared, they were everything.

Now, they amount to nothing.

And Lydia? Even less.

"You said it yourself, right?" Helen said, the mockery evident, "There, I just did that. Unless, of course, all that 'hit me, yell at me' nonsense was just a performance for Mrs. Morgan? Hm?"

Lydia's face twisted in mortified fury and frightened rage. "O-Of course I wasn't! I just don't want you to ... " she stammered, clutching her reddened cheek.

"Then take it," Helen cut in.

"Save that playing-the-innocent act of yours. The Morgans might be fooled—I don't.

"So now, dear 'innocent girl' ... If you don't want your flawless cheek swollen, better f*ck off next time I see you. Got that?"

Helen slung her duffel bag over one arm, turned around, and picked up her phone. "It's done. Come get me," she said.

Her tone was calm—cold, even. Like a command from someone used to giving orders.

Sienna's face twisted with rage. That cold, decisive back, walking away without hesitation, overlapped with the Helen she used to know—the one who once begged and groveled in front of her.

The contrast stung. "You b*tch! Get out! Just go! Let's see how long that attitude lasts after leaving the Morgans!" Sienna shouted after her, practically seething.

She scrambled to her feet, looking a mess, then grabbed Lydia and stormed toward the house—still muttering curses under her breath the whole way.

Lydia kept glancing back, step by step, at Helen's figure shrinking into the distance until it finally disappeared. Her teeth gently sank into her bottom lip.

Just now ... who was Helen talking to?

Sienna always said Helen grew up out in the sticks. It was only four years ago—after her grandmother died—that the Morgans brought her back.

A girl from a small town like that would never truly fit in with high society, no matter what.

Everyone Helen ever associated with came from the Morgans' circle or Sean Griffin.

So now that she'd been kicked out, who the hell would be coming to pick her up?

And more importantly ...

That tone Helen used on the phone ... It was too commanding, too confident.

Lydia couldn't hold back her curiosity. She tugged on Sienna's sleeve, and the two of them rushed toward the study.

The floor-to-ceiling window in the study gave them a perfect view of the Morgans' front gates.

...

Outside the Morgans' estate, a car roared in like a missile and stopped smoothly right in front of Helen.

It wasn't some flashy sports car, nor a flashy stretch limo. There were no recognizable logos or fancy branding anywhere on it. Just a matte black SUV, low-profile in color, but somehow, that only made it more striking.

It hit the eye like a punch, bold and unmissable.

The body had clean, flowing lines, but the design carried a raw, rugged power.

The car door swung open.

A man in black tactical gear jumped out in one clean, fluid motion.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, clean buzz cut, features chiseled and intense—his eyes sharp as a hawk's.

He rounded the front of the car in long, purposeful strides, heading straight for Helen. Every step radiated the presence of someone used to disciplined training—controlled, but with force behind it.

"Boss!" The man stopped directly in front of Helen, posture straight as a board. He snapped off a sharp salute, crisp and clean, the kind of salute that came from deep loyalty and discipline.

There was no emotion on his stern face, only absolute obedience.

Helen's expression didn't change. She gave a subtle nod in return.

The man immediately stepped to the side and respectfully opened the back door for her.

Without hesitation, Helen lifted her foot and got into the car. She didn't spare even a glance back at the Morgans, not a flicker of nostalgia, not a single look over her shoulder.

The door shut behind her with a solid thud, and the specially modified vehicle sealed off all sound from the outside world in an instant.

The man climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The oversized tires gripped the pavement.

Whoosh—with a sound like something cutting through the wind, the SUV launched forward, powerful and unstoppable.

...

Back in the study, Lydia rushed to the window, but all she caught was a glimpse of the buzz-cut man respectfully helping Helen into the car.

Even at a distance, she could feel the deadly, intimidating energy radiating off of him.

Especially when he got into the vehicle.

He must've sensed her watching, because suddenly, he jerked his head up and looked straight at her.

That look ...

It hit Lydia like a venomous snake had coiled around her throat. She couldn't breathe, and the air around her seemed to vanish.

Her face went pale as a sheet, cold sweat pouring down. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed to the floor right there by the window.

"Lydia, what's wrong?!" Sienna gasped and rushed to help her up.

Jacob turned to look toward the window, too.

And right then, a roar erupted outside, loud and wild like a beast letting loose.

A black, steel monster of a vehicle came crashing into their field of view.

Jacob shot to his feet, eyes wide in shock, staring at the SUV that was now tearing down the road with terrifying speed and intensity.

His pupils shrank in disbelief, contracting again and again.

He considered himself well-connected—his own garage filled with top-tier luxury cars.

But that vehicle? He'd never seen anything like it before.

There was something else—an inexplicable, gut-level sense of fear—that made Jacob frown hard. "That car ... Whose is it?"

Lydia curled into Sienna's arms, clutching the hem of her dress so tightly her knuckles had turned pale.

Her lips trembled. "Helen just ... got into that car."

Jacob's expression shifted. "Helen?"

That SUV was definitely not some ordinary vehicle.

How the hell could Helen know someone who could afford to drive a machine like that—let alone be close enough that they'd come personally to pick her up from the Morgans' estate?

"What are you two whispering about?" Sienna huffed. She'd seen the car too, but didn't think there was anything special about it. "Birds of a feather, right? Anyone hanging out with that little brat can't be anything decent."

It didn't even have a logo.

Just a no-name junker too cheap to slap a badge on the front.

What was the big deal? Why were Jacob and Lydia acting like they'd just seen a ghost?

Right then, the housekeeper knocked on the study door, a strange look on her face. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, I was just cleaning up ... um, Ms. Helen's room, and I found this on her vanity," she said cautiously.

She walked over and placed a piece of paper and a bank card on the desk.

"That girl already left her crap behind. Why bother bringing it to us?" Sienna muttered, glancing at it with disdain.

But Jacob's gaze locked onto the card. His brow creased deeper. He reached out and picked up the sheet of paper.

Helen's handwriting, bold and stylish, flowed effortlessly across the page.

It was a list.

And at the very bottom, in her fierce, confident scrawl, she'd written, "The above covers every expense I've incurred over the past four years at the Morgans, including room and board. The total is 500,000 dollars. PIN: 000000."

Jacob's frown deepened.

Sienna leaned over for a look, and the second she saw the paper, she let out a laugh. "Wow. She really went all in on the act. Actually made a list and everything."

Her eyes skimmed down. "Five hundred thousand? Lydia spends that much in a month on allowance! And Helen thinks her little four-year joyride as a fake heiress is worth just 500,000?"

She scoffed. "Trash blood stays trash. Her whole world starts and ends at 500,000."

Sienna rolled her eyes. "And what, she thinks throwing us a list and a debit card makes us square? Where exactly did she get that kind of money to 'settle up' with us anyway?"

Jacob said nothing, eyes glued to the paper in his hand.

He remembered Helen throwing that 50,0000 check in his face, the way she looked—so cold, so sure of herself, so final.

She'd meant every word of it.

His gaze ran over the list again, slower this time. His hand tightened into a fist.

"Tell the butler to pull every single expense Helen's had in the last four years—every meal, every outfit, every cent. I want a full breakdown. Now."

The list was short enough to scan in a single glance.

Four years Helen had spent in the Morgans' estate, and this was the entirety of her expenses?

One thin sheet of paper?

If word got out, the other elite families would probably think the Morgans had gone bankrupt, treating a former daughter this stingily.

Jacob's gaze shifted to the bank card. "Check the balance on this."

The butler took the card and list without a word and headed off to verify it.

Sienna opened her mouth to say something, but one look at Jacob's dark expression made her bite it back. She gave a dramatic sigh and muttered under her breath, "You're really taking that list seriously? That little brat's just playing mind games, classic reverse psychology. She wants us to think we wronged her. She's fishing for sympathy, trying to guilt-trip us into feeling bad, into changing our minds."

No way she believed Helen's total expenses over four years added up to just 500,000.

Even the housemaids at the Morgans' estate probably racked up more than that in four years.

This kind of tactic? She'd seen it a hundred times.

...

Back in the SUV, the buzz-cut man, Dale Lowe, sat like a statue behind the wheel, hands steady on the steering wheel.

Through the rearview mirror, he watched Helen, eyes closed in the back seat, resting.

"Boss, since you've officially left the Morgans, why don't we head straight back to the Null Zone?" he said.

There was a trace of eagerness in his tone now. "The guys have been waiting for you to come back."

Helen opened her eyes just slightly, her voice cool and distant. "For now ... "

She didn't finish. Her phone rang, cutting her off.

She glanced down at the caller ID—an unknown number from Veridia.

She picked up. On the other end, a middle-aged man's frantic voice came through. "Ms. Walcott! I'm George Bowen, the butler Mr. Walcott sent to pick you up. I'm so sorry ... I got into a car accident on the way to the Morgans' estate. I'm at Veridia Hospital right now, in the ER!"

Helen's eyes narrowed slightly.

Ms. Walcott? Butler?

Hadn't the Morgans' background check said her biological family lived in one of the poorest slums in Veridia?

Those two words—"Ms." and "butler"—didn't exactly fit with slum life, did they?

"Ms. Walcott ... I'm so sorry for the delay," George said, his voice heavy with guilt.

Helen's tone stayed even, almost detached. "Give me the address. I'll head there myself."

George apologized again, hurriedly giving her the name of the neighborhood, but before he could finish, a frantic voice suddenly shouted in the background.

"Family of patient in Bed 1! Where's the family for Bed 1? Blood pressure just dropped! Heart rate's spiking! We suspect internal bleeding. She needs to get into surgery immediately!"

George froze for half a second, then shouted back, "Doctor, over here! What's happening to the patient in Bed 1?"

The doctor's voice was grim. "Her condition's critical. The CT shows the bleeding's near a major artery. She needs surgery right now."

George's voice rose, almost breaking. "Then operate! Whatever it takes, just save her! Money's not an issue!"

"It's not about money," the doctor said, troubled. "The bleeding site is too close to a vital vessel, and the patient has a history of heart disease.... The risk is extremely high, success rate is less than 10%."

The unspoken truth hung in the air—no surgeon was willing to take that table.

George's hands were trembling now, though he fought to stay composed. "This is Veridia Hospital, the best in the city. You mean to tell me not a single doctor here is capable of handling this surgery? Dr. Miller, you're one of the top surgeons here. Are you saying even you can't do it?"

Just then, a nurse ran in, panic written all over her face. "It's bad! Bed 1's blood pressure is dropping fast, and her pupils are dilating! If we don't act now, she won't even last ten minutes!"

George's phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor.

More footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a hushed voice. "Dr. Miller, I checked the patient's file again. Turns out that girl's identity ... " someone whispered urgently.

He hesitated, then lowered his voice further. "She can't die in this hospital. If something happens to her, the man behind her—his anger is something we can't afford."

Otis Miller glanced at the chart that had just been handed to him, and his pupils constricted sharply. His face drained of color. "Where's Dr. Morgan? Find him now! In all of Veridia, he's the only one who can perform this surgery!" he barked.

A nurse spoke up urgently. "We already notified Dr. Morgan. He's attending a medical symposium in the neighboring city, and he's on his way back now. But ... but the patient might not make it in time. We need a decision fast! Her lips are turning blue, nail beds are going gray, and her vitals are crashing!"

Suddenly, a commanding female voice cut through the panic, tinged with authority and a hint of arrogance. "Administer a rapid IV push of Norman Compound. Start fluid resuscitation immediately. Stabilize her vitals. We need time for surgery!"

A wave of visible relief swept through the doctors. "Dr. Porter, you're here! Is Dr. Morgan close behind?" one of them said, almost breathless.

Otis asked anxiously, "Dr. Porter, are these Dr. Morgan's instructions?"

Amanda Porter, Maxwell Morgan's personal medical assistant, was known as a prodigy in her own right. She had joined him at several international medical summits and was widely respected for her clinical precision.

In Veridia Hospital, she was Maxwell's stand-in.

"This is Dr. Morgan's direct order. He's on his way as fast as possible. Until he arrives, we must stabilize the patient," Amanda said sharply. She turned to the nurses with crisp authority. "Move! Start the protocol now!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the nurses responded in unison and rushed to comply.

But just as they moved, a calm, clear voice echoed from the phone still lying on the floor. "If you go through with that injection, your hospital better be ready for a lawsuit."

The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a knife, sending a wave of tension across the floor.

The nurses froze mid-step.

"Who are you? What would you know?" Amanda snapped, frowning as she glanced toward the phone. She gave a cold laugh and turned back to the nurses. "Ignore it. Do it now. The patient doesn't have time to waste."

It was only then that George realized that he'd never hung up. He scrambled to grab the phone off the floor, hands trembling. "Ms. Walcott ... "

"Stop her." Helen's voice came through, calm and razor-sharp. "The patient cannot be given Norman Compound. Blue lips and gray fingernails are signs of long-term hypoxia. That drug contains Compound Y. If it's administered now, it will trigger acute anaphylaxis on top of hemorrhagic shock. She'll be dead in five minutes."

George didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and blocked the nurses' path. "No! You cannot inject that drug!"

Amanda scoffed, arms crossed, oozing contempt. "You'd better think long and hard about the consequences," she sneered. "Does your miss even have a medical license? Does she practice medicine? Dr. Morgan's treatment plan is the gold standard. And you—who the hell are you to question it? The patient is dying, and if she dies because of you delaying treatment—guess what? The hospital won't be liable. You will."

George stood firm, voice steady and unwavering. "Then put it on me," he said sharply. "If Ms. Walcott says no, then it's a no. I'll take full responsibility."

"You'll take responsibility? Can you even afford to?" Amanda's face turned cold. "Dr. Morgan's instructions are never wrong. Administer the drug immediately! Any more delay, and it'll be too late!"

The doctor nearby quickly chimed in, "Exactly. I've never heard of Norman Compound containing anything like Compound Y—an allergy? That's just fear-mongering!

"Dr. Morgan is a recognized genius in the field. His surgeries are textbook cases of success.

"Administer it! Right now!"

George tried to stop them.

Amanda gave a sharp order. "Hold him back. If he keeps interfering with treatment, call the police!"

George struggled, but they held him tight, keeping him from stepping in. "Ms. Walcott, what do we do ... "

Helen's voice was calm, emotionless. "They can believe what they want. Whatever happens is on them."

Amanda let out a mocking laugh and gave the "authoritative" command. "Administer the drug immediately!"

There was chaos on the other end of the phone.

George's voice was hoarse as he fought against their grip, helpless.

Finally, with a trace of despair, he said, "They ... they did it. They injected the compound ... "

Helen said nothing.

She already knew what was coming.

And sure enough ...

Just a few seconds.

That's all it took.

"Something's wrong! The patient's throat is swelling, rash spreading fast, she can't breathe!"

"No blood pressure reading! Heart rate's dropping, down to 30! She's going into V-fib!"

"Anaphylactic shock! God—massive blood loss and allergic reaction? What the hell do we do now ... ?"

Everything happened exactly as Helen had warned.

Amanda's face went pale in an instant. Her voice shook, panic creeping in. "N-No way ... Dr. Morgan's gold standard couldn't be wrong ... There's no way it was an allergy! It must be her! Yeah, it's her body. Something was already wrong with her!"

She tried to shift the blame.

But her voice was shaking badly.

George stood frozen, watching all the doctors frantically working to save the young girl. He clutched his phone tighter, hanging all his hopes on Helen. "Ms. Walcott ... you can save her. You can save her, right?"

Helen paused for a second.

From the very beginning, this butler she'd never even met had shown her unconditional trust.

And because of that, she felt a flicker of warmth toward the biological parents she'd never met either.

Her voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. "You. Find someone who knows traditional medicine. Bring a acupuncture needling kit."

Her calm, steady voice carried a strange sense of reassurance.

George immediately raised his voice, shouting toward the chaotic crowd of doctors, "Someone, find a specialist in traditional medicine. Ms. Walcott has a way!"

"Traditional medicine? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows that stuff is just a bunch of pseudoscientific nonsense!" Amanda snapped.

But George didn't even spare her a glance. They were racing against death, and he didn't have time for her cynicism.

He turned to Otis and barked, "Go find someone trained in traditional medicine, now! Any consequences, I'll take full responsibility!"

Otis looked like he wanted to protest.

But the moment he saw George slightly open his shirt collar and reveal a badge pinned inside, his expression changed instantly. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he quickly turned and barked orders at the nearby staff, "What are you standing around for? Go find someone now!"

What the hell was going on today?

How did both powerhouses of Veridia end up at Veridia Hospital at the same time? And tangled up in this mess of all things?

Soon, a young, nervous female doctor was dragged in by a nurse.

As she stepped into the room, she hesitated, looking unsure. "I—I know a bit about acupuncture, but I'm not exactly an expert ... "

"As long as you understand instructions, that's enough." Helen's voice was cool, her tone rapid but every word was clear. "Listen carefully. Press hard on the philtrum until the patient makes a sound. Next, the sternum—insert the needle flat, half an inch deep, rotate for stimulation. Then the lower abdomen—insert vertically, one inch deep, lift and twist. All of it—within two minutes!"

The young doctor's hands had been trembling at first, but Helen's commanding presence calmed her. Her hands moved faster than her brain.

Before she knew it, her body was already following Helen's directions.

Amanda clenched her fists, her face twisted with disdain. "Acupuncture? What—she thinks some herbs and a few needles are gonna fix this?"

Even though the crisis was entirely her fault, she still couldn't resist throwing out snide remarks.

The other doctors were just as skeptical. "Dr. Miller, are you seriously just going to stand there and let them mess around?"

"Healing patients still comes down to modern medicine! Push the epinephrine! Get the defibrillator ready!"

"You think a few needles can be more effective than imported emergency meds? Then what's the point of the country pouring billions into drug research every year?"

"Wait till Dr. Morgan gets here, then let's see how you explain this mess!"

And just then ...

The young female doctor suddenly cried out in surprise, "There's—there's a response! The throat swelling is going down! Breathing's stabilizing! Blood pressure ... blood pressure is rising, 95 over 60! Heart rate's up to 115! Oxygen saturation is back at 95%! Her lips are pink again, and she's regaining consciousness!"

All the mocking voices cut off instantly.

Amanda's voice cracked, a note of disbelief slipping through. "Th-That's impossible ... !"

Helen's voice remained calm and steady, with a quiet confidence that made it sound like everything had gone exactly as planned. "Wait for me."

Just three words, but George almost burst into tears from sheer relief.

His tone shifted into deep respect for the young woman he'd never even met. "Yes, Ms. Walcott!"

The call ended.

Helen lifted her eyes lazily and glanced at Dale.

Without needing any instructions, Dale slammed the gas pedal and whipped the steering wheel, speeding toward Veridia Hospital. "Boss, I can't believe you're personally stepping in to save someone!"

Helen leaned back in her seat, relaxed. Her slender white fingers casually tapped across her phone screen. "Medicine is meant to save lives. That's what it means to be a doctor."

Dale's mouth twitched.

The most feared enforcer in the Null Zone—someone who made criminals piss themselves at the mention of her name—was now saying saving people was her duty as a doctor?

If the guys back at the Null Zone ever heard this, they'd probably lose their minds.

But, listening to the way that the butler spoke to boss ...

Her biological parents might actually be way more trustworthy than those clowns in the Morgans.

The car shot forward like lightning.

Helen made another call.

It was picked up within three seconds, and the voice on the other end was respectful.

"I'm heading to Veridia Hospital to save a life. Get your ass over there. I don't want any interruptions," Helen said coolly.