Maya’s heart slammed against her ribs. Don’t do it. You’ll kill him. She knew Jonathan’s medical history better than anyone in the room. For three weeks, she had studied his files at night, slipping into the study once the house slept. Not out of curiosity—but because she was a doctor.
A top graduate from UCLA Medical School, locked out of prestigious hospitals by lack of connections. She cleaned houses to survive, but her oath had never faded.
“Prepare the dose,” Hale ordered.
The mop slipped from Maya’s hands, crashing onto the marble floor.
“You can’t do this,” she said sharply. “That treatment will kill him within the hour.”
Every head turned. Mrs. Carter, the head housekeeper, gasped. Dr. Hale stared as if furniture had spoken.
“Excuse me?” he scoffed. “Go back to your cleaning supplies. Medicine isn’t your place.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” Maya stepped forward, removing her apron. “I’m a physician. And Mr. Whitmore doesn’t have a resistant viral infection. He has autoimmune encephalitis caused by antibodies attacking his GABA-B receptors.”
Gasps filled the room. Hale’s face flushed.
“Security!” he barked. “She’s violated medical records!”