“No. He eats normally. Formula, baby food, everything. But he keeps getting thinner. You can see his ribs.”
Maria’s voice trembled.
“I’ve noticed strange things, doctor… things I can’t explain. I feel like that baby is dying.”
Isabella looked at the crowded waiting room around her. She had patients waiting, responsibilities she couldn’t abandon.
But those words echoed in her mind: he’s dying.
“Give me the address,” she said finally. “I’ll stop by after my shift. I’m not promising anything—just an evaluation.”
The address shocked her.
Beverly Hills.
That night at eight, Isabella left the hospital exhausted and drove her old Toyota Corolla across the city.
The neighborhoods slowly changed. Streets became quieter, houses larger, trees taller.
At a large iron gate, a security guard studied her suspiciously until her name was confirmed over the intercom.
The driveway led to a massive glass mansion glowing under outdoor lights.
For a moment Isabella felt her plain white coat didn’t belong in that world.
The door opened before she could knock.
Maria stood there, wearing a spotless uniform but with tired, worried eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “They’re upstairs.”