Chapter 529
“I want Rylie right now! Which room is she in? She hurt my daughter! The doctors say her leg might need to be amputated! And you’re still covering for that criminal? If you don’t hand her over today, I’m not leaving!”
Rylie’s brow furrowed in mild surprise as she steered her wheelchair toward the commotion.
Her security detail closed in immediately, their footsteps quickening as they followed her lead.
The young nurses behind the counter looked like they were on the verge of breaking under the barrage of shouts and accusations. They had no answers to give — and even if they did, patient confidentiality prevented them from responding.
That was especially true for a VIP patient, whose personal information was guarded like a state secret.
“I’m Rylie.” Her voice, cool and precise, sliced through the noise like glass dropped into boiling water. The commotion at the nurses’ station ceased instantly.
Every head turned toward the wheelchair, eyes narrowing as if she were prey surrounded by predators.
At the front stood Connie’s mother, Beatrice Truman — once immaculately put together, now rumpled and wild-eyed. The sight of Rylie’s arm and leg bound in casts didn’t evoke any sympathy. Instead, her glare sharpened, hatred flaring hotter.
“So you’re the teacher who hurt my daughter?!” Beatrice’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make the air feel thinner. She lunged forward, her finger stabbing the space between them.
“You heartless bitch! Do you see what you’ve done? My girl’s leg—do you have any idea what the doctors told me? Even if it heals, she might limp for the rest of her life! And you shoved her! You shoved her like she was nothing!” Her rage spilled out, flecks of spit flying toward Rylie.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward in an instant, his sheer size eclipsing Beatrice’s frame, blocking her path entirely.
The weight of his cold stare made her instinctively pull back, but the venom in her eyes didn’t fade.
“Out of my way! You’re nothing but guard dogs for the wealthy!” shouted Connie’s father, Caleb Truman, barging forward beside his wife. He jabbed a finger toward the bodyguard. “The culprit’s right there, and you’re hiding her behind your bulk? Is that what justice looks like to you? Move, or I’ll make sure she’s on her knees, begging my daughter for forgiveness before the day’s over!”
The moment one voice rang out, the rest of the relatives followed, their shouts swelling into a storm of rage.
“That’s right! Rylie deserves to pay with her life!”
“Look at her — smooth skin, delicate face — and yet she’s rotten to the core!”
“Someone call the police! She should be behind bars!”
At the nursing station, the staff huddled together, fear driving them into the shadows. Not a single one dared to make a sound.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath, thick with hostility, the tension humming like a fuse ready to ignite.
In the center of it all, Rylie sat in her wheelchair. The illness still clung to her in the pallor of her cheeks, but her eyes were unsettlingly steady, as if nothing could pierce the chill in her gaze.
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