Chapter 3 - CONFISCATION AND CHAOS
The stark fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room hummed with a maddening, relentless buzz. Richard sat in a plastic chair that felt offensively cheap, staring at his hands. Two hours had passed since Vanessa was wheeled away. The doctors had finally emerged, their faces grim, speaking in hushed tones about "acute systemic organ failure" and "unidentifiable synthetic toxins." They had pumped her stomach, put her on dialysis, and placed her in a medically induced coma. She was alive, but only because machines were breathing for her.
"Mr. Blackwood?"
Richard looked up. Standing before him were two detectives. The older one, a man with a weathered face and a cheap suit, held up a badge. "Detective Miller, NYPD. This is my partner, Detective Vance. We need to ask you a few questions about Ms. Palmer."
"Of course," Richard said, standing up, projecting the aura of a deeply concerned partner. "Has there been an update? Did they figure out what happened to her?"
"They know she ingested something highly toxic," Miller said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Richard's immaculate tuxedo, which was now wrinkled and stained with sweat. "Something that doesn't usually find its way into a high-end restaurant's kitchen by accident. We're treating this as an attempted homicide."
Vance stepped forward, a younger, sharper man with calculating eyes. "You were the only one dining with her. You both ate the same dessert, yet you’re standing here perfectly fine, and she’s on life support. How do you explain that, Mr. Blackwood?"
"I don't," Richard said smoothly, channeling the ruthless composure that had built his empire. "We ate the same food. Drank the same wine. If someone poisoned her, it happened before I met her tonight, or someone infiltrated the kitchen."
"Right. The kitchen," Miller muttered, pulling a small evidence bag from his pocket. "We’ve already locked down the restaurant. We’re pulling security footage. But in the meantime, we need to establish a timeline of your communications. We’re going to need your phone, sir."
Richard’s jaw tightened. His phone contained the keys to his empire, sensitive corporate data, and private communications. But refusing would instantly paint a target on his back. They were fishing, trying to see if the billionaire boyfriend wanted to eliminate his partner. They didn't know about the switched plates. They didn't know about the girl.
"Take it," Richard said, pulling the sleek device from his jacket pocket and handing it over. "But I expect it back within twenty-four hours, fully intact, or my legal team will be breathing down the neck of the police commissioner."
Vance dropped the phone into an evidence bag, sealing it with a sharp zip. "We'll be in touch. Don't leave the city."
As the detectives walked away, Richard pulled a burner phone from his inner pocket—a device he kept for emergencies. He dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Marcus," Richard said when the line connected. Marcus was his head of private security, a former elite operative who answered only to him. "I have a situation. Vanessa is in a coma. The police have my primary phone. I need you to find a ghost."
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"Give me the parameters, boss," Marcus replied, his voice a gravelly rumble.
"A homeless girl. Maybe twelve years old. Faded blue hoodie. She breached La Ciel’s security tonight around ten. She warned me about Vanessa. I need her found before the police figure out she exists, and before whoever Vanessa works for finds her first. We're being hunted."
