"Hurry—get the stretcher! She collapsed!"
The sharp command cut through the hospital corridor like a blade. In seconds, the once-orderly hallway dissolved into chaos.
Doctors abandoned charts, nurses rushed from different wings, and the sterile calm Selma's Specialist Hospital was known for shattered under the weight of panic. Shoes squeaked against polished floors as bodies moved helter-skelter, urgency written on every face.
This was not a scene anyone had anticipated—least of all here.
For a brief, disorienting moment, Agatha stood frozen, her mind refusing to process what her eyes were seeing. The woman lying motionless on the floor, surrounded by frantic medical staff, could not be her boss. Not her. Not the woman who never slowed down, never faltered, never allowed weakness to exist within these walls.
Reality struck hard.
"Move!" someone shouted.
Agatha sprang into action, her hands trembling as she followed the stretcher racing toward the emergency room. The fluorescent lights above blurred as they passed beneath them, each second stretching unbearably long.
By the time they reached the ER, word had already spread.
"Where is she?"
The voice was sharp with fear, cutting through the noise. Agatha turned to see Mrs. Charles standing at the entrance, her posture rigid, breath uneven. She must have run the moment she heard—still dressed carelessly, hair slightly disheveled, eyes wide with panic that no amount of dignity could conceal.
"She's in the emergency room," Agatha answered quickly. "The doctors are attending to her."
Mrs. Charles stepped closer, gripping Agatha's arm as if grounding herself. "How? What happened to her?"
Her voice wavered despite her effort to remain composed. It was obvious she had been resting when the call came—sleep still clung faintly to her eyes, chased away too abruptly by fear.
"She was attending to patients," Agatha explained gently. "Then she just… collapsed. No warning."
Mrs. Charles pressed a hand firmly against her chest, inhaling slowly as if steadying her heart. "That brat never learns," she muttered bitterly. "She wants to kill herself with work and leave us behind."
The words were harsh, but the fear behind them was unmistakable.
Time crawled.
The waiting area felt unnaturally quiet despite the distant hum of hospital machinery. Every second that passed without news tightened the knot in Agatha's chest. Finally, the emergency room doors opened, and a doctor stepped out, removing his mask.
Mrs. Charles stood immediately. "What happened to her?"
"Fatigue and extreme stress, ma," the doctor replied respectfully. "From our observations, she hasn't rested properly for weeks—possibly longer. Her body finally gave in. She needs rest. Real rest. Months, if possible. That's what her body requires right now."
Mrs. Charles said nothing. She only nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of his words.
The owner of Selma's Specialist Hospital.
A woman who, alongside her mother, had built this place from nothing—brick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice. In just two years, the hospital had flourished beyond expectations. Patients flooded in daily.
Departments expanded. More doctors, more nurses, more responsibilities.
But never enough hands.
So she filled the gaps herself.
Owner. Doctor. Administrator. Problem-solver.
She became everything—until there was nothing left for herself.
And now, the hospital that bore her name stood witness to the cost of her relentless dedication.
---
People filled the airport hall in a constant, restless tide—some rushing as though chased by invisible clocks, others moving with deliberate slowness, dragging their feet as if time itself owed them patience. Voices overlapped in a chaotic symphony: shrill complaints from passengers blaming traffic, weather, fate, or humanity itself for their lateness; murmured apologies laced with flimsy excuses; and the dull monotony of travelers waiting in long lines, clutching documents and boarding passes, hoping for mercy from overworked attendants.
Amid all this movement and noise sat Selma.
Perfectly still.
She occupied a metal seat near the check-in counters, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her posture relaxed to the point of indifference. Her attention was fixed on her phone, lips curled—not in a smile, but a restrained grin, as though whatever she was watching amused her just enough to be worth acknowledging, but not enough to truly delight her.
Ticktock?
Absolutely not. She wasn't a fan of mindless scrolling or exaggerated dances.
Instagram?
Too expensive.
Not that she lacked the money. Selma simply despised wasting it on what she considered useless indulgences. That same philosophy was why she had allowed her personal assistant to book the earliest and cheapest flight available—no frills, no comfort, no luxury. Practicality over pleasure. Always.
Ironically, she had been the very reason they missed it.
She had delayed their departure deliberately—deliberately—all in the noble pursuit of looking flawless. Nearly two hours spent perfecting her already immaculate fair skin, smoothing invisible imperfections, adjusting what no one else would ever notice. The mirror had become her battlefield, and vanity, her quiet victory.
And she had almost won another battle too.
She had nearly convinced her parents—nearly—that traveling was unnecessary.
That staying home and "following the doctor's advice" was the responsible choice.
A perfect argument, delivered calmly, wrapped in concern and logic.
Until—
She groaned internally when the memory surfaced.
--
Her father, seated behind the wheel, face set with quiet determination. Her mother beside him, occupying her usual place like a general overseeing a campaign. And at the back—
Agatha.
Calm. Observant. Silent.
Selma's eyes had drifted unwillingly to the trunk of the car. Her small pink suitcase sat neatly beside Agatha's plain white duffel bag, already packed, already waiting—as if destiny itself had conspired against her.
Like they were always meant to be there.
"Must we do this?" Selma had asked,
clinging to a shred of hope.
"Yes, we must!" her mother snapped without hesitation. "Now get your damn ass in the car."
Selma had gasped audibly, eyes widening in mock offense. She stared at her mother as if deeply wounded before muttering, "Rude," under her breath—more to soothe her pride than to protest.
And now—
Here they were.
At the airport.
Booking a last-minute ticket.
Selma exhaled sharply, irritation radiating off her as she cast a dangerous sideways glance at her parents. They stood close by, unyielding, arms crossed, expressions firm.
They had made it painfully clear—they weren't leaving until the tickets were secured.
Time dragged.
Twenty minutes passed.
Just twenty.
Yet to Selma, it felt like an eternity carved out solely to test her patience. She sat rigidly, foot tapping, jaw clenched, hovering two seconds away from spontaneous evaporation.
Gosh.
This wasn't a break.
This wasn't rest.
This was nothing but a lazy moment of stupidity disguised as concern.
Then Agatha appeared.
She strode toward them with quiet efficiency, two tickets held neatly in her hand. Her face revealed nothing—no triumph, no apology. Just completion.
In moments like this, Selma knew one undeniable truth:
Agatha was an open book spy.
Efficient. Observant. Always three steps ahead.
And though Selma would never admit it aloud, she held a slight grudge against her—not-quite-friendly, not-quite-trustworthy companion.
Because Agatha never missed anything.
Not even the things Selma wished to hide.
___
If there was one thing Selma despised with absolute certainty, it was being trapped in a country she had never desired to visit. The dislike was not shallow or impulsive; it ran deep, tied to everything the country represented in her mind—the unfamiliar language, the alien customs, the lack of control. From the moment she saw the destination printed boldly on the flight board, a tight, simmering resentment had settled in her chest.
She remembered the instant clearly.
The sharp flicker of disbelief in her eyes.
The slow, dreadful realization.
And then her mother's voice.
"Why?" her cheeky mother had asked, tilting her head with infuriating amusement. "Are you regretting your decisions now?"
Selma clenched her jaw. Of all times to tease her—now?
"Can you be serious for once, Mother?" she snapped, irritation bleeding into her tone before she could stop it.
That only made things worse.
Her mother raised both hands in mock surrender, her expression angelic, almost holy, as if she were the very image of innocence. "You have yourself to blame," she said lightly. "You were the one wasting time in the bathroom. And now you blame us?"
Selma opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You—"
She stopped mid-retort and turned instead, dead-faced, toward Agatha, as if silently accusing her of treachery. Before she could recover, she felt it—a sharp, unmistakable smack against her backside.
In public.
Her eyes widened.
"Mom?" Selma hissed, mortified. "I'm almost thirty. You don't need to do that. Stop embarrassing me!"
"Stop embarrassing me…" her mother mimicked mercilessly. "A perfectly good flight to New York was ruined because you thought you were being clever."
Then her tone changed.
Instantly.
The playful edge vanished, replaced by something cold, firm, and immovable—like a battlefield moments before war. She turned fully toward Selma, eyes sharp, posture commanding.
Selma swallowed without meaning to.
"Now remember this," her mother said quietly. "Your house, your hospital, and every property under your name still belongs to us. If you dare try to come back before your one-year break ends, I'll sell them."
Selma's throat tightened.
"You know exactly what I can do."
She nodded. Slowly. Instinctively.
Agatha chuckled under her breath, unable to hide her amusement. Selma's mother was the only woman on earth capable of chaining her stubborn, irritable daughter without lifting more than a finger.
Selma knew her mother far too well.
This wasn't a threat.
It was a reminder.
A reminder that until that middle-aged woman drew her last breath—which Selma fully intended to prevent for decades to come—she still held the authority to discipline her. Even if that discipline bordered on absurd, humiliating, and wildly excessive.
"You… pretty vermin," Selma muttered under her breath.
Another smack landed in the exact same place.
"Alright!" Selma hissed, finally surrendering.
She spun on her heel and stormed toward the departure hall, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she marched off to check in before boarding.
Behind her, her mother's voice followed, infuriatingly calm. "You don't have to look so grumpy. It's a good city."
Tell me you planned this, Selma thought darkly.
She turned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "You—forget it. It's a waste of saliva. I'll have this conversation with you when we settle."
She chose the word settle deliberately instead of land. Because landing meant finality. Settlement implied preparation, control—something she desperately hoped Agatha had already arranged before dragging her into a country she knew absolutely nothing about.
What an incredulous friend.
What a scheming mother.
She sighed inwardly.
Oh, how she wished her father had a say in this.
But just like her mother, he had agreed—firmly and without hesitation. Betrayal came easily when both parents were united.
"Alright, drama queen," Agatha said, lips curling into a smug smile.
Selma responded with a sharp humph, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
And just like that, they made their way toward the gate—toward the so-called country that had always ranked dead last on Selma's travel list.
A place she never wanted.
A journey she never chose.
And a year that promised anything but peace.