Chapter 1: The Protocol
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed with an aggressive, relentless hum. It was a suffocating, sterile white that made my eyes water, though that could have also been the sharp, astringent smell of rubbing alcohol and iodine. I lay rigid on the thin, crinkling paper of the examination table. Every intake of breath felt like a shard of glass sliding between my ribs, a stark reminder of the cost of tonight’s performance.
To my left, on the adjoining stretcher, lay my twin sister, Clara. Her dark hair, usually a curtain of silk, was matted with dried blood at the temple. Her eyes were wide, vacant, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles as she rocked slightly, humming a discordant, eerie tune. It was a terrifying sight. Or, it would have been, if I didn’t know it was an Oscar-worthy performance she had been perfecting for the last three months. My hand hung off the side of my bed, my fingertips just barely brushing against the cold railing of hers.
Standing at the foot of my bed was Dr. Sarah Miller. She was a veteran of the ER, a woman whose tired eyes had seen the absolute worst of human nature. She was currently running gloved fingers over the deep, identical purple welts blooming across my forearms—textbook defensive wounds.
Standing in the corner of the room, as far away from us as physically possible, were our captors.
My stepfather, Edward Vance, leaned casually against the stainless-steel sink. He wasn’t a raving, wild-eyed monster. He was a terrifyingly composed, sociopathic real estate mogul. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that likely cost more than the MRI machine down the hall. He was currently washing his hands, methodically scrubbing his cuticles with soap, entirely unbothered.
Beside him stood my mother, Patricia. She was the picture of distressed, wealthy elegance. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless despite it being past midnight. She clutched her quilted Chanel handbag so tightly her knuckles were bone-white, playing the role of the distraught matriarch to perfection.
Dr. Miller looked up from my bruised arms. “Did both girls manage to fall down the grand staircase and sustain identical defensive contusions?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
Patricia didn’t miss a beat. She offered a smooth, practiced sigh of maternal exhaustion. “They’re identical twins, Doctor. I know it sounds strange, but they even imitate each other when they’re manic. Clara had another one of her… episodes. Phoebe tried to restrain her. It was a chaotic tangle of limbs. It’s a miracle it wasn’t worse.”
Edward dried his hands, tossing the paper towel gracefully into the bin. “Look, Doctor, we appreciate your thoroughness. But it’s been a long night. Just patch them up, give Clara her sedatives, and let us go. They have a very important transfer tomorrow morning to a specialized care facility.”
He took a step forward, assuming his wealth, his tone, and his sheer presence would bend reality to his will. He assumed he was in control. He didn’t know I had spent the last ninety days engineering his total annihilation.
Dr. Miller didn’t write a prescription. She didn’t look at Edward. Instead, she leaned in close to me, adjusting the blood pressure cuff on my arm. As she leaned over, she whispered, so softly only I could hear, “I read the hidden text in the online triage form, Phoebe. Code Icarus.”
My breath hitched.
Eight years ago, before my biological father, Daniel Sterling, died, he had quietly funded Dr. Miller’s entire medical school tuition when she was a struggling, brilliant student facing bankruptcy. She owed him her life. I had discovered her name in his old journals, and tonight, while in the ambulance, I had hacked the hospital’s patient portal, embedding a specific SOS code my father used to use for corporate emergencies. Code Icarus.
Dr. Miller stood up, her face an unreadable mask of clinical detachment. She walked toward the heavy wooden door of the examination room.
“What are you doing?” Edward snapped, his patience fraying.
“Hospital policy, Mr. Vance,” Dr. Miller said coldly.
She stepped outside and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. A second later, the electronic deadbolt engaged with a deafening, echoing thud. A red light flashed above the door frame. Lockdown.
Edward froze. Patricia gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
But that wasn’t the sound that made my stepfather’s blood run cold. It was the sudden, violent vibration of his cell phone in his breast pocket. Then Patricia’s phone started ringing in her purse.
I looked up at the ceiling and smiled through the pain. Because they were about to realize that the sound of my ribs cracking hadn’t just been recorded. It had been broadcasted to every member of Edward’s board of directors.
Edward pulled his phone out, staring at the screen. His aristocratic pale skin suddenly flushed a violent, mottled red. He lunged toward the heavy reinforced door, his composure shattering like cheap glass. He raised his fist to pound against the reinforced window.
But before his knuckles could even graze the glass, the red light above the frame blinked green.
The lock disengaged with a heavy clack.
Someone was opening the door from the outside. And it wasn’t hospital security.