“You kept telling me the same story,” he said, voice hoarse. “Specialists. Treatments. Follow-ups. Names I never met. Places I never saw.”
His eyes flicked to Elena, then back to Viven.
“And I… I never asked for a single document.”
Viven’s posture stayed elegant, but her fingers curled against her thigh for a second like she was restraining something sharp.
“Because you were grieving,” she said softly. “Because you needed someone to handle the details.”
“The details are my daughter,” Fernando snapped.
His voice broke like glass.
“So tell me, Viven. Right now. What clinic? What doctor? What medication? Give me one name that isn’t smoke.”
“I told you,” Viven began, but the sentence thinned under his stare.
Immani cut in, quieter than both of them, somehow louder.
“You performed it,” Immani said. “Every time he got close to Elena, you redirected. Every time he questioned her health, you wrapped it in comfort and urgency and guilt.”
Immani nodded toward the untouched orange juice.
“And you always came back to that drink.”
Fernando grabbed his phone again, hands shaking but anchored now by fury. He scrolled through old messages he’d never read carefully because Viven had always assured him it was handled.
“You said Dr. Mercer,” Fernando muttered, like the name was lodged in his memory. “You said he was the best.”
He hit call.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then a recorded voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service.”
A silence fell so heavy it seemed to press the air out of the kitchen.
Fernando stared at his screen.
Tried another number, labeled CLINIC.
Another ring.
Another dead line.
He searched, typed, called, each attempt dissolving into nothing.
Not a receptionist.
Not a voicemail.
Not even the dignity of a real answer.
Elena’s breathing hitched, panic rising like she expected punishment for the truth revealing itself.
Immani squeezed her hand gently.
“Stay with me,” Immani whispered. “You’re safe.”
Fernando turned back to Viven, voice cracking into something raw.
“You told me you took her to appointments,” he said. “You said Thursdays. You said the driver knew. You said the paperwork was in the study.”
Viven’s smile tried to return, but it looked wrong now. Paint on a cracked wall.
“You’re spiraling,” she said. “You’re letting grief turn you cruel.”
“No,” Fernando whispered, stepping closer. “I’m finally seeing the shape of the lie.”