Revenge of the jilted Carrington heiress

The commotion at the foot of Ophelia’s bed subsided as the nurse hurried over to intercept the strangers blocking the aisle, leaving Ophelia alone with her thoughts for a brief moment. She pulled the thin, scratchy hospital blanket higher over her shoulders, trying to block out the chill that seemed to seep straight from the concrete floor into her bones. Her body throbbed with every heartbeat, a constant, unrelenting ache that reminded her of how close she had come to dying the night before.

A few minutes later, the heavy curtains surrounding her bed parted with a raspy metallic ring, and Dr. Harrison stepped inside. He held a metal clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression lined with the exhaustion of someone who had been working a double shift in an understaffed ward.

"How are we holding up over here, Ophelia?" Dr. Harrison asked, pulling a small silver penlight from his pocket as he stepped closer to the side of the bed. His voice was tired but carried a genuine warmth that felt entirely out of place in the sterile, depressing environment of the public ward.

"I've felt better, Doctor," Ophelia replied, her voice remaining low and steady as she looked up at him. "My ribs feel like someone took a hammer to them, and my head won't stop pounding."

"That is entirely expected given the velocity of the impact you took," Dr. Harrison said gently, leaning over to check the monitor displaying her heart rate and blood oxygen levels. "A severe concussion combined with deep soft tissue trauma takes time to settle. I reviewed your morning scans from radiology just a few minutes ago. There is no internal bleeding, which is a massive relief, but you are going to need complete rest for at least a week. No sudden movements, no stress."

Ophelia let out a dry, humourless breath. "Stress is something I seem to have a surplus of right now, Doctor."

Dr. Harrison offered a sympathetic, knowing smile as he adjusted the overhead lamp to get a better look at the bandages wrapping around the back of her head and neck where the impact had cut through her skin. "Husband still hasn't shown his face?" he asked quietly, keeping his voice down so the patients in the neighbouring beds could not eavesdrop.

"He sent a text message instead," Ophelia answered, her gaze fixing on the stainless steel rail of the bed. "He told me not to bother him because his friend was shaken up from the accident."

Dr. Harrison clicked his tongue against his teeth in silent disapproval, shaking his head. "Some men have no idea what loyalty looks like until it is gone," he murmured, gently setting his clipboard down on the edge of the rolling cart. "Let me check the dressing on the back of your neck. The nurses reported some slight seepage earlier, and I want to make sure the stitches are holding properly before I sign off on your morning medications."

Ophelia nodded slowly, bracing herself for the inevitable spike of pain as she carefully shifted her weight to the side. She lifted her chin, exposing the back of her neck to the doctor's expert hands.

Dr. Harrison reached out with a pair of sterile medical scissors to snip away the outer gauze, his movements precise and practiced. As the white cotton dressing fell away, revealing the pale skin at the nape of her neck, a thick curtain of damp, dark hair fell back into place over the area.

"Hold on just a second," Dr. Harrison muttered, reaching for a clean cotton swab. He used two fingers to gently sweep the heavy strands of dark hair aside to get a clear view of the lower hairline where the laceration had occurred.

The moment his fingers parted her hair, the doctor froze completely.

The silver medical instrument slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the metal tray of the cart. His breath hitched in his throat, and the professional, collected demeanor he had maintained all morning vanished in an instant. His eyes widened behind his wire-rimmed glasses, staring intently at a small, distinct mark on the pale skin right at the base of Ophelia's skull—a rare, crescent-shaped birthmark bordered by three tiny, perfectly aligned freckles.

Ophelia flinched slightly at the sudden silence, confused by the abrupt change in the doctor's posture. "Doctor? Is something wrong with the stitches? Did it get infected?"

Dr. Harrison did not answer right away. He reached out with a trembling hand, hovering his fingers just millimeters above the mark as if afraid that if he touched it, the vision would vanish. His face had gone entirely pale, the color draining from his cheeks as memories from decades ago violently resurfaced in his mind. He had spent the early years of his medical career working closely with elite philanthropic foundations, and he knew the family crest and the genetic markers of the Carrington dynasty better than anyone.

"Where did you get that?" Dr. Harrison whispered, his voice shaking so badly the words barely formed a coherent sound. "Ophelia... where did you get that mark on your neck?"

"I've had it my entire life," Ophelia replied, her brow furrowing in deep confusion as she looked back at him over her shoulder. "My adoptive parents always told me it was just a birthmark. Why are you looking at me like that?"

The doctor ignored her question, his eyes darting frantically from the birthmark to Ophelia's facial features—the sharp, aristocratic line of her jaw, the unique slate-grey tint of her eyes that he had been too tired to properly analyze earlier. The puzzle pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity in his mind.

"Excuse me," Dr. Harrison gasped, backing away from the bed so quickly he nearly knocked over the medicine cart. "Stay right here. Do not let anyone move you. Do you understand me, Ophelia? Do not move an inch!"

"Doctor, what are you talking about?" Ophelia called out, propping herself up on her elbows despite the sharp pain lacing through her ribs.

Without offering another word of explanation, Dr. Harrison turned on his heel and bolted down the narrow aisle of the ward, his white lab coat flying behind him as he practically sprinted toward the nurses' station, his hands already fumbling frantically through the pockets of his trousers for his personal phone.

Ophelia stared after him in total bewilderment, her heart hammering against her ribs. Before she could even process the bizarre encounter, the heavy swing doors at the entrance of the ward pushed open with a loud bang, and a deep, commanding voice echoed across the room.

"Which bed is hers?"