Chapter 380:

In the back of a taxi speeding toward a modest hotel in Queens, George Kensington held his phone to his ear.

“It’s done, Mother,” George said, his voice steady for the first time in years.

“Good,” the Matriarch’s voice came through the line, crisp and devoid of sentiment. She was in London, but her reach was global. “You took too long, George. But better late than never. The Trust has seized control of the Manhattan properties. Eleanor will be served with eviction notices in the morning.”

“Eviction?” George felt a pang of guilt. “Mother, that’s… harsh.”

“She embezzled three million dollars from the family accounts over the last decade, George,” the Matriarch said coldly. “I have the forensic accounting reports. I tolerated it because you seemed attached to her. But if you are done, so am I. She is a liability.”

George closed his eyes. Three million. While he wore cheap suits and worried about the electric bill.

“Do what you must,” George said.

“And George?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Aurora Vance. Fix it with her. She is the future. If you want a place in this family, you will make amends.”

“I know,” George whispered. “I intend to.”

He hung up the phone and looked out at the New York skyline. He had no home, no wife, and his daughter was a stranger to him. But the crushing weight on his chest was gone.

While the Kensingtons imploded in Manhattan, a different kind of calculation was happening across the Atlantic.

Dr. Smith sat in his private office at St. Jude’s Hospital in London. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of multiple monitors. On the main screen was a high-resolution photo taken by a paparazzo in New York just hours ago.

𝖀𝖕𝖉𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖘 ⲋ𝛼𝓁ⲛ𝓸ⴝ𝖊𝓁𝓈﹒ⅽ𝗈𝗆

It showed Aurora Vance leaving the Kensington building. Her hand was raised to shield her eyes from a flashbulb, and on her finger, the Ryan Signet Ring was clearly visible.

Smith zoomed in on the ring. Then he swiped to the next image: Lady Cecelia Ryan, sitting in her wheelchair, looking healthier than she had in five years.

“Remission,” Smith muttered, tapping a pen against his desk. “Total, impossible remission.”

He picked up a file on his desk. It was the stolen trash from Cecelia’s room—the shattered mug he had analyzed. The lab results had been frustratingly vague. Traces of organic compounds, rare alkaloids, but nothing that explained the miracle cure. The active agent had degraded too quickly. He needed a fresh sample. Or better yet, the formula itself.

He picked up his encrypted phone and dialed a number.

“Report,” Smith barked.

“I’m in New York,” a female voice answered. It was tight with suppressed anger. “I’m at the hotel. Lady Cecelia is resting.”

It was Dr. Jennifer Evans. She had accompanied Cecelia to New York as her “private physician,” a role she resented but clung to for proximity.

“And the subject?” Smith asked.

“Aurora is here,” Jennifer hissed. “She’s practically being canonized. They’re calling her a savior. She has the ring, Doctor. The Ryan Ring. It should have been… a medical professional’s honor.

.

.

.

Message from Noa: Nice morning dear ones, there will be a new novel release in a few hours. God loves you and Noa wishes you all the best. (๑>◡<๑)

.