Chapter 3

The bet became the talk of New York. Headlines screamed, society buzzed.

I ignored the noise. My focus was Liam.

Bridget O'Connell granted me quiet access to her son. He lay still, machines humming softly around him.

I prepared my treatment, a careful infusion using a small, controlled amount of my own blood, mixed with specific herbal compounds I'd spent years perfecting. It was a delicate process, one I hadn't used since... before.

The trauma was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but Liam's innocent face, Bridget's unwavering hope, pushed me forward.

"Thank you, Amelia," Bridget whispered, watching me work. "Whatever happens, I am in your debt." She pressed a heavy envelope into my hand. "For your expenses. And for your courage."

I tried to refuse, but she was insistent. "This is a fight for my son. And you are our champion."

A few days into the ten-day period, an unmarked courier delivered a small, encrypted drive to my temporary residence. The sender ID was blocked.

Inside, a short video file.

It showed Veronica Croft in a private lab, not a jungle. She was meticulously grinding her "healing orchid," but then, she carefully added drops of a shimmering, unlabeled liquid from a dark vial into the mixture. Her expression was furtive, almost guilty.

The video ended.

I replayed it. The liquid... it looked almost iridescent.

The source of the video? I had a strong suspicion. Eleanor Vanderbilt. Her initial plea, her subtle glance at the gala, her request for my "opinion" on the orchid. She was no fool. She was a mother, desperate, but also sharp. She was hedging her bets, or perhaps, gathering evidence.

I continued my treatment of Liam. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to respond. A flicker of an eyelid. A twitch of a finger.

Meanwhile, news reports, fueled by Vanderbilt PR, painted a picture of Ethan's miraculous improvement under Veronica's care. Photos showed him smiling, propped up in bed.

But the anonymous source sent another, shorter clip. Ethan, his face contorted in a silent grimace of pain when he thought no one was looking. Veronica hastily adjusting his blankets, her smile strained.

His condition wasn't improving. It was deteriorating, masked by Veronica's concoction and a desperate charade.

The ten days passed in a blur of quiet healing sessions for Liam and public posturing by Veronica.

The tenth day arrived. A press conference was called at a neutral, high-end hotel ballroom. The Vanderbilts, the O'Connells, doctors, media, and a throng of New York's curious elite were all present.

Veronica stood on the dais, preening, accepting early congratulations. Ethan was not yet there; his "dramatic entrance" was being saved.

"As you can all see," Veronica began, gesturing to an empty space beside her, "Ethan will soon join us, a testament to the power of the Amazon's gifts, and, if I may say so, my own perseverance."

She looked around, searching for me. "And where is Miss Hayes? Has she conceded defeat already? Has Liam O'Connell remained lost to the world?"

A door at the side of the ballroom opened.

I walked in.

And beside me, leaning lightly on a cane but walking on his own, was Liam O'Connell. His eyes were clear, a gentle smile on his face.

The ballroom fell into an astonished silence.

Jaws dropped. Cameras flashed.

Veronica's triumphant expression froze, then crumbled.

"Impossible!" she stammered.

Liam stepped forward slightly. "Thank you, Miss Hayes," he said, his voice a little weak but steady. "You gave me back my life."

Bridget O'Connell rushed to his side, tears of joy streaming down her face.

The narrative had shattered.

Just as Veronica began to sputter, her face pale with shock and impending humiliation, the main doors burst open.

Ethan Vanderbilt made his entrance, flanked by two sturdy attendants, his arms linked through theirs. He took a few, seemingly supported steps.

"Not so fast, Amelia!" Ethan boomed, a manic grin on his face. "Looks like your little magic show isn't the only miracle today!"

He looked strong, defiant.

Veronica's face lit up with desperate hope.

Ethan took another "step." "You see? I'm walking! Veronica cured me! You lose, Amelia! You lose everything!"

He tried to pull free from his attendants, to take a triumphant, unaided stride.

I watched him, my expression calm. "You might be standing, Ethan," I said, my voice carrying clearly in the sudden hush. "But your legs... they are not healed. They are, I regret to inform you, irrevocably damaged."

He scoffed. "Lies! Jealous lies!"

He pushed his attendants away. "Watch this!"

He took a step. Then another. His grin widened.

And then he collapsed.

A horrifying, tearing sound. A scream of pure, unadulterated agony ripped from his throat.

He writhed on the floor, clutching his legs.

The fine fabric of his trousers was suddenly dark, stained. A sickeningly sweet, metallic odor began to permeate the air.

Panic erupted.

Eleanor Vanderbilt rushed forward, her face a mask of horror. She saw the state of his legs, the discolored, decaying flesh visible where his trousers had ripped.

She turned, her face contorted with fury, and slapped Veronica Croft hard across the face.

"You witch!" Eleanor screamed. "What have you done to my son?!"

Security guards, summoned by Eleanor's shriek, grabbed a hysterical Veronica and dragged her away.

Amidst the chaos, I knelt beside Ethan, my face impassive.

"The damage is severe, Mr. Vanderbilt," I stated clinically. "Necrosis. Extensive. To save your life, immediate, drastic medical intervention is required."

I looked at Eleanor. "Amputation. Both legs. Without it, the sepsis will kill him within days, if not hours."

Ethan, through his pain, glared at me with wild, hate-filled eyes.

"You did this!" he shrieked. "Sabotage! You poisoned me!"

The illusion had shattered. His miracle was a nightmare.