A Reckoning on Lancaster Territory

My shoulders convulsed with each useless breath, every inhalation pitifully shallow, every exhalation a faint, broken wheeze.

I lost my balance and pitched forward, my forehead hitting the floor hard.

Harrison reacted instinctively, dropping to a crouch and grabbing my arm, stopping me from crashing completely.

"Is it really that bad?" he asked, his voice noticeably lower, impatience mixed with a sliver of doubt.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out, only a faint, strained puff of air, as if my very soul was being squeezed from my body.

Before I could force another breath, Colleen’s breath hitched in a soft, theatrical sob.

"Harrison..." Her voice quivered as she covered her mouth, her eyes welling up almost instantly.

"I... I really don't understand how things got to this point. Why does she hate me so much?"

She looked at me with a wounded, incredulous expression, as if she were the one being unjustly accused.

Then she pulled her phone from her clutch.

"Look at this," she said, turning the screen to Harrison first.

"This is my latest published paper. A peer-reviewed study on psychogenic stress inducing asthma-like symptoms."

As she spoke, her voice steadied, adopting a tone of calm, professional restraint that only bolstered her credibility.

"It focuses on exposure therapy—an internationally recognized method for reducing panic-induced respiratory reactions."

She swiped slowly and deliberately across the screen, allowing those nearby to glimpse the complex charts and data.

"This method is clinically validated," she continued.

"It exists precisely because patients often subconsciously believe they are suffocating when they are not in real danger. The more they rely on rescue inhalers, the more severe their psychological dependence becomes."

Then she looked back at me, her eyes moist but her gaze firm, like a misunderstood saint.

"I didn't do anything to hurt her," she said softly.

Her voice trembled just enough to weave a perfect illusion of someone wounded, yet restrained and reasonable.

"I was trying to help her break a psychological cycle," she continued, lifting her chin slightly, her eyes wet but resolute.

"This is science. I've spent years studying how panic disorders can manifest as asthma-like symptoms."

Her shoulders trembled, as if she were struggling to bear the weight of a terrible injustice.

"So what is this?" she asked softly, almost helplessly.

"Is she saying my academic work is fake?"

"Or that my clinical judgment is wrong?"

She paused, then looked around the room, her voice dropping lower, heavier.

"Or is she trying to say..." She swallowed hard. "...that I'm trying to hurt her on purpose?"

Her gaze flickered briefly to me—collapsed on the floor, trembling, struggling to breathe—then away again, as if she couldn't bear to witness such a vicious accusation.

"Is she faking her own death just to turn everyone against me? To frame me for attempted murder?"

A dead silence followed.

To any observer, her logic was flawless. On one side was an Ivy League-educated psychology expert; on the other, a seemingly spoiled rich girl.

And next to her, I lay on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.

In their eyes, I looked like I was staging a malicious accusation, not fighting for my life.

She slowly shook her head, her face a mask of disbelief.

"Thea," she said, her voice breaking, "I know you don't like me. I've always felt it. You think because I'm the adopted child in the Vaughn family, I don't deserve to be in this circle."

"But you can't frame me like this just because you're feeling unwell, can you?"