Chapter 5

That afternoon, I skipped the office and went straight to the penthouse.

The place was dead quiet.

Someone had already cleaned up the shattered glass from Andrew's breakdown yesterday and replaced the carpet.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

I opened the study safe and pulled out his old medical files, trauma relapse records, and prescription adjustment logs.

These were documents outsiders couldn't touch—I had always been the one keeping them safe.

I packed them neatly into a document box, then went to the entryway drawer and retrieved the spare key.

In the master bedroom, I grabbed the two spare access cards from the nightstand. I didn't touch a single dress, piece of jewelry, or handbag in the closet.

My skincare products remained on the bathroom counter, untouched. I didn't even take my toothbrush.

All I took were the medical kit, the medical records, the keys, and the access cards.

It was as though I were systematically extracting the only parts of myself in this apartment that actually mattered.

By late afternoon, Natalie arrived to help me haul the documents.

She stared at the single box in my hands, her voice tight. "That's all you're taking?"

"It's enough," I replied.

"What about your clothes?"

"I'll deal with that later."

She hesitated, clearly struggling to hold back, but finally couldn't help asking, "Ms. Lane, are you really going through with the surgery?"

I slipped the final relapse evaluation report inside. "Yeah."

"Is it really worth it?"

I shut the lid. "I have to make room for myself eventually."

She fell silent.

Before the car pulled away, I took one last look at the building.

I had come here countless times over the past three years.

At first, it was to manage Andrew's trauma interventions.

Later, I moved in because his night attacks were becoming more frequent and he couldn't be left alone.

Eventually, everyone assumed I would always be around.

Even I almost believed it.

I realized then that being needed and being chosen were never the same thing.

Andrew got back around nine that night.

By then, I had already dropped the document box off at my newly rented apartment.

A surveillance alert popped up on my phone, showing the penthouse foyer.

Andrew stood in front of the cabinet and pulled open the drawer.

A second later, he froze.

It was completely empty. The medical kit was gone. The spare keys were gone. I had even taken the sticky notes listing his medication schedules.

He called almost immediately.

I picked up. The line stayed quiet for two seconds, as if he were trying to suppress his temper. "Vivian. What on earth is going on with you lately?"

I looked out at the night sky, my voice completely flat. "I'm not throwing a fit. I'm packing up."

Silence hung over the line for a moment. Andrew seemed unable to grasp what I meant, or perhaps he just couldn't be bothered to figure it out.

Holding back his irritation, he spoke. "Just bring the medical kit back first.

"The board is reviewing the project debrief tomorrow, and I really don't want to argue with you tonight."

"We'll talk tomorrow," I said, and hung up.

The next morning, the Mindwell project was trending on social media.

It wasn't for a technical breakthrough. It was over an alleged patient data leak.

A snippet from a media interview had been clipped and attached to the trending topic.

In the video, Julia sat composed in front of the camera, delivering smooth answers.

"We've heard that Dr. Lane has been leading your company's memory intervention project," the host asked. "Recently, patients' families raised concerns about chaotic data permission management. What's your take on this?"

Julia paused for half a second. "Dr. Lane is our primary clinician, so she holds a lot of the historical permissions. We're currently conducting an internal review to give the public a proper account of the situation."

She didn't explicitly accuse me, but every word pointed the finger squarely in my direction.

Before long, a storm of secretly recorded videos, interview clips, statements from patients' families, and online forum leaks blew up all at once.

The entire internet was demanding answers: Had the project lead accessed patient files without authorization? Was the doctor using privacy permissions to cover up something shady?

When I arrived at the office building, a crowd of reporters was already blocking the lobby outside. Camera flashes flickered continuously.

Someone shoved a microphone toward me and shouted, "Dr. Lane, is it true that you accessed high-net-worth patients' emotional files without authorization?"

"Dr. Lane, as the original head of the project, please give us an explanation!"

"Ms. Grant is already helping the company deal with the fallout. Will you be issuing a public apology?"

I kept walking without stopping as security held the crowd back.

Still, their voices kept pelting me—like a trap set in advance, just waiting for me to step into the light.

Before I could board the elevator, Natalie rushed over and shoved a tablet into my hands, her face completely drained of color. "Ms. Lane, something's wrong.

"The media portal was reauthorized last night, and someone messed with the labels on the anonymous patient samples. The log was wiped pretty clean, but the formatting isn't what you normally use."

I looked down and skimmed a couple of pages.

The traces were subtle—invisible to an outsider, but clear to me.

The API padding, the file naming conventions, the precise sequence of the media Q&A—it all looked far too orchestrated.

This wasn't an accident. Someone was intentionally framing me.

Natalie lowered her voice. "Julia brought the PR and legal teams into her office last night, and she took a draft of an old patient interview transcript with her."

"Keep all the evidence," I said, handing the tablet back to her.

That only made her more anxious. "That's all you have to say? The whole company is waiting to watch you crash and burn!"

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside and said simply, "Don't panic on my behalf just yet."