"I shouldn't be telling you this. The Blackwood's are powerful people—and not only could I lose my license, I could lose my life," the doctor whispered, eyes darting nervously around his office like he expected someone to burst out of the walls and catch him mid-confession.
"Nothing like that will happen. I assure you—"
He cut her off. "I don't think you can assure me of anything. Kieran Blackwood isn't who you think he is. He's not the innocent, charming playboy the world sees. I saw how he reacted... just because she cried."
Monica frowned, her hands curling into fists in the fabric of her skirt. "Don't you think I know that? But do you think not helping me will protect you? Newsflash—it won't. When this comes out, it'll be obvious that you knew me. And he won't care that you didn't fully understand or didn't cooperate. He'll still see you as part of it. So just do what I'm asking, and none of this will ever come out."
The doctor froze, clearly weighing her words. But deep down, he knew she was right.
He finally looked away from his desk, his voice dry. "What exactly do you want me to do?"
Monica smiled—cold, calculated. She leaned in, her fingers brushing the polished surface of the table.
"Something simple. It's not like I'm asking you to kill someone."
He flinched. Not at the words, but at how easily she said them. Like taking a life was as mundane as sipping tea. It wasn't just her lack of remorse—it was the way she said it. Like she'd done it before. Like she'd do it again.
"You said the reports are ready, right? All you need to do is forge another one. None of the Blackwoods need to know the truth about what happened."
He tapped his fingers on the desk, his pulse thudding in his ears. But he didn't speak.
"The results just need to make it look like it's nothing serious. Something untraceable. That way it can't be tied back to you..." She paused, then rose from her chair.
The doctor watched her as she came around the desk. She stopped behind him, resting one hand on his bald head.
"Because if it is traced," she said with a tilt of her head, "I'll make sure all your dirty little secrets get a spotlight."
Her smile deepened when she felt him stiffen.
"I'm sure you don't want anyone finding out that a prestigious doctor like yourself, from such a respected hospital…"—she dragged out the words, her nails tapping his scalp—"likes to drug traumatized teenage girls... just to 'calm them down.'"
She bent low, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered mockingly, "But we both know that's not all you did, do we?"
The doctor's entire body went rigid. His hand trembled visibly on the desk.
Monica slowly straightened, watching the color drain from his face with pure satisfaction.
"Oh, don't look so shocked," she cooed. "You're not as careful as you think you are. One nurse with a guilty conscience and your perfect little world crumbles."
His mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked like a man who'd just seen his own funeral invitation.
"I'm not asking for much," Monica said, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. "Just a simple edit. No scalpels. No lies to anyone's face. Just a piece of paper. If you do it right, no one will ever question it."
She turned back toward the door, then glanced over her shoulder one last time.
"But if you don't…" Her eyes narrowed. "I've already got the folder ready. Every girl. Every file. Every note. Ready to be sent to the press, or the board... or the police. Take your pick."
The doctor dropped his gaze. His knuckles turned white against the wood of his desk.
"…Fine," he whispered. "But after this, I want nothing to do with you. Ever again."
Monica chuckled darkly. "That's the beauty of it, Doctor. After this, you won't have to see me again."
She headed for the door, heels clicking on the tile, humming softly under her breath.
Because as they say—
The devil doesn't always come with horns.
Sometimes she's just a middle-aged woman, wrapped in designer knockoffs, with fake diamonds around her neck… and blood on her hands.
Later…
Monica stepped into the house, the blast of cold air from the vents hitting her like a wall. She exhaled and slipped off her heels as she walked into the living room.
Just as she turned the corner, he appeared from the kitchen, mouth full of food.
She narrowed her eyes instantly.
"All you do is eat," she snapped. "Aren't you supposed to be at the casino? Handling the things your brother left behind?"
He rolled his eyes and kept walking past her, uninterested.
Monica whipped around. "Don't you dare roll your eyes at me. And don't you ever walk away when I'm talking to you—unless you want to start sleeping outside."
He turned around sharply. "You really expect me to go out there? You know damn well that bastard might be looking for me ever since I nearly took that bitch."
Monica scoffed, arms folding across her chest. "And whose fault is that? You're so stupid. One simple task—get the girl and bring her back. But no, you couldn't even manage that."
His hands clenched into fists. "I almost—"
She cut him off, voice rising with disbelief. "Almost? Did I say almost get her? I said get her! And now look at you—shaking like a leaf because of some daddy's boy."
He shot her a glare. "I ain't afraid of that punk."
Monica opened her mouth to snap back, but the sudden chime of the doorbell froze them both. They turned toward the door in unison.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Were you expecting someone? You've got the nerve to invite people over when—"
"I didn't invite no one," he snapped, already stepping toward the door.
Her expression turned wary. "What? Then who the hell could it be?"
"Let me go check."
He pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans and crept toward the door. As he reached it, he peered through the peephole—and frowned.
Monica crept up behind him, her voice low. "Who is it?"
He turned slowly, his face pale. "It's not just a who…"
Her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Then a voice echoed from behind them.
Monica's eyes flew wide in shock.