5. The Autopsy of an Empire
I didn’t watch them drag him out.
The paramedics arrived seconds later, swarming me, lifting me gently onto a gurney, and rushing me out of the chaotic ballroom into the cool night air.
I woke up twenty-four hours later in a secure, private room in the VIP wing of Chicago Memorial Hospital. The room was bathed in bright, warm sunlight streaming through the large windows.
There were no security cameras monitoring my movements. There were no heavy, soundproofed doors. There was no Julian standing in the corner, dictating what I was allowed to eat or who I was allowed to speak to.
There was only the quiet, beautiful hum of healing.
Dr. Thorne visited me later that afternoon, holding a thick medical file. He smiled, a look of profound relief on his face.
“The toxicology report is airtight, Clara,” Dr. Thorne confirmed, pulling up a chair beside my bed. “It’s a masterpiece of forensic evidence. The DEA agents executing the warrant at your estate found the hidden safe. He had enough raw sedatives and paralytics stockpiled in there to tranquilize a horse.”
I closed my eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath.
“The District Attorney is pushing for attempted murder, alongside the kidnapping and assault charges,” Dr. Thorne continued. “Given the severity of the prolonged poisoning, the vast financial resources at his disposal, and the overwhelming flight risk, the federal judge flatly denied him bail. He is currently sitting in a concrete holding cell.”
