The Grand Opening of the Lascourine Memorial Hospital was not a ribbon-cutting; it was a declaration of war.
Perched on a cliffside overlooking the Cordovan coast, the structure was a masterpiece of glass and obsidian. It looked less like a place of healing and more like a fortress of the future. Below, the Mediterranean churned, but inside, the air was climate-controlled, scented with jasmine, and humming with the quiet vibration of billion-dollar machinery.
Lulan stood on the mezzanine, looking down at the sea of tuxedos and silk gowns. Every titan of industry, every disgraced noble, and every high-ranking politician in Europe was there. They had come to see the "Shadow Director," the mysterious heiress who had turned the late General's estate into a medical monopoly in record time.
"Status check," Lulan said, her voice dropping into the small comms unit hidden in her collar.
"Perimeter secure, Mother," Lucian's voice crackled back, crisp and frighteningly professional for an eleven-year-old. He was stationed in the security hub, his eyes monitoring a dozen thermal feeds. "Kael has successfully encrypted the guest list's private comms. If anyone sends an unauthorized signal, we'll see it."
"Good. And the others?"
"Bastian is charming the ambassadors' wives near the fountain. Elara is... well, Elara is staring at the Minister of Finance. I think she's unnerving him."
"Let her stare," Lulan murmured. "It builds character."
The Arrival
The heavy double doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open, and a hush fell over the room like a sudden drop in pressure. The Belgravian delegation had arrived.
Leading them was Prince Leonard.
He hadn't aged well. The arrogance was still there, etched into the lines around his mouth, but his eyes were bloodshot and frantic. Beside him walked his advisors, looking like men who were carrying a coffin. They weren't here for a party; they were here for a miracle.
Lulan descended the grand staircase. She wore a gown of midnight blue that shimmered like spilled oil. Her hair was pulled back into a lethal, low knot, revealing the diamond studs that were the only soft thing about her.
As she reached the floor, the crowd parted. Leonard stepped forward, his practiced "Prince's Smile" flickering as he looked at the woman before him. He didn't recognize her. To him, the girl he had discarded was a smudge on his past, a nameless commoner lost to the shadows.
"Director Lascourine," Leonard said, bowing his head slightly. "The rumors didn't do you justice. You've built a temple to science here."
"I prefer to think of it as a courtroom, Your Highness," Lulan replied, her voice as smooth as polished marble. "Here, nature's laws are finally enforced. Some survive. Others... are sentenced."
Leonard's smile faltered. "A sharp metaphor. I'm told you are the one who oversees the new 'Vortex' neuro-mapping. My father—the King—has a condition that requires the best."
"I know," Lulan said. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray but didn't drink. "I've seen his charts. Inoperable, according to the Royal Physicians. A death sentence."
"They are fools," Leonard hissed, stepping closer. "Money is no object. Belgravia will fund your research for a decade if you can extract the tumor."
The Terms of the Contract
Lulan turned her back on him, walking toward a massive floor-to-ceiling window. Leonard followed, desperate.
"I don't need Belgravia's money, Leonard," she said, using his first name without a title. He flinched at the breach of protocol. "I already have more than I can spend in three lifetimes. I require something more... tangible."
"What do you want?"
Lulan turned to face him. For the first time, she let the "Ice Queen" mask slip just enough for him to see the fire beneath. "I want the Royal Seal to acknowledge this hospital as a sovereign medical territory. No Belgravian law can touch what happens inside these walls. And," she paused, her eyes locking onto his, "I want the public rehabilitation of the 'Lascourine' name. I want it written in your history books that the General was a hero, and his daughter is the savior of the Crown."
Leonard's face went pale. "That's a massive political concession. The council would never—"
"Then the King dies," Lulan interrupted. "And you, Leonard, will be the Prince who let his father rot because he was too proud to sign a piece of paper."
She leaned in, her whisper cold enough to frost the glass. "They say the 'Ghost Surgeon' can perform miracles. But a ghost only appears to those who are already haunted. Are you haunted, Leonard?"
The First Crack
Before he could respond, a small figure approached. Kael, dressed in a miniature tuxedo, held out a tablet.
"Mother," Kael said, his voice calm but his eyes sharp. "The King's vitals just spiked. The remote monitor at the palace is flagging a Grade 4 seizure. He won't make the night without the sedative protocol."
Leonard looked from the child to Lulan, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "Is that... is that your son?"
Lulan reached out and brushed a stray hair from Kael's forehead. The boy looked exactly like a younger, sharper version of the man standing in front of him.
"One of them," Lulan said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "He has his father's eyes. Don't you think?"
The color drained from Leonard's face. He looked at Kael, then back at Lulan, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The "middle-class girl." The girl from the kitchen. The girl he had destroyed.
"Lulan?" he whispered, the name tasting like ash.
Lulan didn't answer. She simply looked at her watch. "You have sixty seconds to decide if the King lives, Leonard. After that, I'm going to finish my champagne and go to bed. I have a very busy morning scheduled."
She turned to the crowd, raising her glass.
"To the future," she announced, her voice ringing through the hall. "And to the dead who refuse to stay buried."