Chapter 4: The Hidden Prescription
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 3:14 AM. The penthouse was dead silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the central air conditioning pumping purified air through the vents. My legs throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache under the bandages, but my mind was unnaturally sharp, wired by adrenaline and the absolute terror of what tomorrow morning's visit from Dr. Vance would bring.
I slid my hand under the mattress, pulling out the crumpled photographs I had salvaged earlier. Sorting through the torn pieces by the faint amber glow of the city lights bleeding through the sheer curtains, my fingers brushed against something unfamiliar—a small, crisp piece of paper that hadn't been part of the polaroids.
Frowning in the darkness, I pulled it out and held it up to the window. It was a pharmacy receipt, dated two days ago, bearing the letterhead of a downtown medical clinic and the signature stamp of Dr. Marcus Vance. But it wasn't for prenatal vitamins or standard supplements. The item listed was a heavy-grade neuroleptic sedative, prescribed in large quantities, with a delivery address directed not to our pharmacy, but to a private P.O. box registered under Doña Esther’s maiden name.
My hands began to shake violently. It was right there in black and white. Vance wasn't just managing my pregnancy; he was systematically poisoning me with a cocktail designed to induce weakness, memory loss, and emotional instability, all while billing Alejandro’s corporate health account for expensive prenatal care. The bruises on my legs weren't from falls, as Vance had documented in his secret chart; they were the side effects of severe muscle atrophy combined with the clumsy restraints they used on me during my worst sedated episodes.
They hadn't just imprisoned me physically; they were rewriting my sanity on paper so that if I ever managed to escape, no court in the country would believe a word I said. I was legally, medically certified as unstable.
A floorboard creaked softly outside the heavy oak door.
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I froze, holding my breath. The faint whisper of expensive fabric brushing against the wall signaled someone approaching in the hallway. Without thinking, I shoved the pharmacy receipt and the photographs deep into the inner lining pocket of Alejandro's tailored black suit jacket, which still hung carelessly over the armchair where he had dropped it hours ago during his rage.
The doorknob turned, but the heavy iron bolt held firm. A quiet sigh echoed from the hallway, followed by soft, retreating footsteps. They were checking on me. But this time, I wasn't just a terrified prisoner anymore. I had the weapon in their own handwriting, and it was sitting right in Alejandro's pocket.
