Chapter 2 - The Doctor’s Prescription
The name Rowan hung in the heavy air of the master suite like a foul odor.
Dr. Alistair Rowan was not just any physician. He was the exclusive concierge doctor for Boston’s old-money elite, a man whose private clinic was funded in large part by the Devereaux family trusts and Grant’s commercial real estate developments. He was the kind of doctor who signed death certificates for wealthy elderly relatives without asking awkward questions and authorized discreet psychiatric holds whenever a troublesome spouse began asking too many questions about offshore accounts.
Downstairs, heavy footsteps resounded on the grand staircase, followed by the calm, authoritative voice of a man accustomed to being treated like royalty in rooms where people were hurting.
“Grant? What’s going on up here?” Rowan’s voice echoed up the hallway.
Grant didn’t break eye contact with me. He adjusted his sweater, smoothing his hair back into place with practiced grace, transforming himself back into the grieving, concerned husband managing a fragile wife.
“Alistair! Thank God you made it so quickly,” Grant called out, raising his voice so it carried through the open bedroom door. “It’s Camille. She’s having another severe episode. She lashed out, tried to destroy our financial documents, and attacked the domestic staff.”
My blood ran cold. He’s rewriting the crime in real time.
Dr. Rowan appeared in the doorway, suitcase in hand. He was a tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties with gold-rimmed glasses and an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place in a domestic disturbance. He took in the scene with calm, clinical detachment—the knocked-over chair, the papers scattered across the bed, my tense posture, and the fresh red mark on the wallpaper where Camille’s head had struck.
Rowan didn't blink. He had clearly cleaned up messes for the Devereaux family before.
“Where is she?” Rowan asked quietly.
“Locked in the master bathroom,” Grant said, shaking his head with theatrical exhaustion. “She’s completely detached from reality, Alistair. She’s putting the baby at risk with this erratic behavior. We need to administer the sedative protocol immediately before she hurts herself or the child.”
I stepped firmly between Rowan and the bathroom door.
“Don't you dare,” I said, my voice shaking with righteous fury. “She is not having a psychiatric episode. He just beat her against the wall because she refused to sign away her inheritance!”
Dr. Rowan didn't look angry; he looked profoundly bored, as if he were dealing with an annoying child in a waiting room. He adjusted his glasses, turning his cold gray eyes toward me.
“My dear,” Rowan said patronizingly, “pregnancy hormones, combined with acute prenatal psychosis, frequently manifest as violent paranoia and delusions about domestic abuse. I’ve treated Mrs. Holloway for months. Her emotional stability has been... fragile.”
“Fragile because you’ve been drugging her!” I shouted.
Grant’s hand lashed out, catching me by the shoulder and shoving me aside with unexpected force. I stumbled against the edge of the dresser, my hip striking the sharp wood.
“Rowan, get the injection ready,” Grant commanded, pulling a small silver key from his pocket and inserting it into the bathroom deadbolt.
“No!” Camille shrieked from the other side of the door. The lock turned with a sharp mechanical click, and the door swung open three inches before Grant kicked it wide.
Camille stood against the far tiled wall of the bathroom, clutching a plush bathrobe around her swollen body. Her face was stained with tears, her hair disheveled, and the red welt on her cheek glowing fiercely under the vanity lights. She looked at Dr. Rowan the way a trapped animal looks at a butcher.
“Alistair... please,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Don’t let him give me that stuff. It makes me sleep for two days. It makes me forget what he says to me.”
Dr. Rowan stepped into the bathroom, opening his leather medical bag with slow, deliberate movements. He pulled out a sterile syringe and a small glass vial containing a clear, heavy liquid. This wasn’t a prenatal vitamin or a standard sedative; it was a heavy-duty neuroleptic typically reserved for acute psychiatric wards—something that would suppress cognitive function, erase short-term memory, and render any statements she made completely incoherent if police were ever called.
“It’s for your own good, Camille,” Rowan murmured in that soft, soothing tone doctors use when they are about to commit a atrocity under the guise of medicine. “Relax your arm.”
“She’s pregnant, you monster!” I yelled, lunging forward to knock the syringe out of his hand.
Before I could reach him, two heavy-set men in black suits—Grant’s private security detail, summoned by the silent alarm on his phone—burst into the bedroom, grabbing me by both arms and pinning me hard against the doorframe.
“Take the maid downstairs and lock her in the utility pantry,” Grant ordered without looking back. “Make sure her phone is confiscated. We’ll deal with her employment termination after the police arrive to report a violent burglary.”
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“You can’t do this!” I screamed as the guards dragged me backward out of the room. “She’s going to tell them! Camille, don't let him touch you!”
As I was hauled into the dark corridor, I caught one last glimpse of the master suite. Dr. Rowan was leaning over Camille, pressing the cold needle against her arm, while Grant stood over her like an executioner, watching her eyes flutter closed as the drug took hold.
