Chapter 3 - The Doctor and the DragonThe master wing of the Carter estate felt less like a residence and more like a museum of quiet wealth and dark, imposing history. High vaulted ceilings crossed with dark mahogany beams stretched over vast chambers lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and priceless oil paintings.
Matthew placed Emily gently onto the edge of a massive, velvet-draped canopy bed that smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen. Within minutes, a middle-aged woman carrying a heavy leather medical case hurried into the room, flanked by two stone-faced housekeepers.
“Dr. Hayes, tend to her feet and the contusion on her cheek,” Matthew instructed, standing near the arched window with his back turned, staring out into the roaring storm over the lake. “I want a full tox screen and a comprehensive physical report within the hour.”
“Right away, Mr. Carter,” the doctor replied professionally, opening her kit and laying out sterile gauze, antiseptic ointment, and surgical tweezers.
Emily flinched as Dr. Hayes gently cleansed the jagged cuts on the soles of her feet, picking out tiny fragments of gravel and glass. Every sting of the iodine brought a fresh wave of reality crashing down on her. She wasn't dreaming. She was sitting in the lair of Matthew Carter—a man whispered about in financial circles as the ruthless corporate raider who devoured failing companies and spat out the bones.
“You’re remarkably brave, you know,” Dr. Hayes murmured quietly as she applied a soothing cream to the swollen purple bruise on Emily’s cheek. “Most girls brought into this wing are screaming or crying by now. You’ve barely made a sound.”
“Crying doesn't fix broken bones, Doctor,” Emily whispered back, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “And it certainly doesn't stop people from trying to sell you.”
From across the room, a low, appreciative chuckle echoed from the window. Matthew turned around, his dark eyes glinting with a dangerous approval. “Indeed it doesn't. Rest well, Emily. Tomorrow, we begin drafting your counter-offensive.”
As Matthew strode out of the room, followed by his retinue of staff, Emily leaned back against the plush pillows. Dr. Hayes finished bandaging her feet and handed her a glass of warm milk laced with a mild sedative.
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“Drink it,” the doctor urged kindly. “You’ll need every ounce of strength you possess. Mr. Carter doesn't wage small wars. When he targets someone, he burns their kingdom to ash.”
Sleep pulled at Emily’s consciousness like a heavy anchor. As her eyelids drifted shut, the image of Diane’s triumphant smirk and Mr. Ambrose’s greedy face danced behind her eyes, but for the first time in two years, the fear was gone. Replaced by something much sharper. Something lethal.
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