Chapter 367:
Rylie asked, “Did he take the medication as I instructed?”
The advisor hesitated. “Yes. The third pill was taken this morning.”
She didn’t react. That had been her expectation. She knew the Snow Mint worked fast. Lochlan had likely delayed taking it, and his doctors must have run tests to confirm it was safe.
The silence stretched, and the advisor finally asked, “Will this affect the surgery?”
“It’s day three,” Rylie said. “We’re good to proceed.”
Only then did he understand — she had anticipated they would test the pills first, which was why she insisted on that exact time frame.
His confidence rose as he looked at the improved signs in Lochlan’s vitals. “My entire team is ready to support you.”
Her tone stayed flat. “Have you informed your godfather yet?”
Lochlan answered, “My foster son will arrive after the surgery.”
“Fine,” said Rylie. “But once this is done, I need you to help me with something.” She didn’t specify further, merely suggesting that Lochlan and his loyal subordinates perform a life-and-death drama, followed by subsequent cooperation in their act.
Lochlan couldn’t explain why, but something about the Healing Hand intrigued him enough to go along with the plan.
As he lay on the table, prepared for anesthesia, Rylie leaned in and spoke softly. “Mr. Quinn, if your own son decided to murder your foster son, would you kill your son to stop him?”
His gaze sharpened. “Seems like you’ve figured out our little family war.”
She didn’t break eye contact. “So would you do it?”
Lᴉtєst ϲhαptєrs in g𝓪lnov𝑒l𝑆.𝗰o𝓂
He exhaled slowly. “Losing a leg and two fingers is more than enough. He’s still my blood. He should live.”
“That’s your choice,” said Rylie.
Overhead, the surgical lights beamed down, harsh and cold. She pulled on sterile gloves, her fingertips brushing the steel tray beside her. The tools gave a crisp clink in response.
“RH-null blood is ready,” the anesthetist said in a hushed tone. “But there’s significant valve calcification. Liver’s over 75% fibrotic. Kidneys are barely functioning.”
Rylie gave no reply. Instead, she reached for a titanium case tucked deep in the medical supply box. When she twisted the lid open, a powerful, icy scent rushed through the room — far sharper than the Snow Mint used earlier.
The advisor stiffened. “What is that?”
“A custom blend,” she said, placing three cold-blue pills beneath Lochlan’s tongue. “Snow Mint and morphine. It will sustain his basic metabolism for 12 hours without needing external circulation.”
His eyes widened. “Is that even approved?”
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