Chapter 2 - The VIP Confrontation
The following afternoon, the quiet of the hospital’s private wing was shattered by the arrival of Thomas and Jason Morrison. They wore matching tailored suits, their faces arranged into masks of solemn, aristocratic grief for the benefit of any photographers who might be lingering outside.
They walked into Sarah’s room unannounced, only to find Daniel standing by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. Sarah was resting, her eyes closed, though her hand twitched nervously at the sound of the door opening.
"Daniel," Thomas said, his voice dripping with paternal warmth that made Daniel’s stomach turn. "Thank God she’s alright. We came as soon as we heard about this terrible, clumsy accident. The stairs in the old house have always been slick."
"An accident, Thomas?" Daniel asked, his voice dangerously level. He didn't move from the window.
"Of course," Jason chimed in, a smug, barely concealed smirk playing on his lips. "You know how Sarah gets when she's stressed. She probably lost her footing. We’ve been saying for years that she needs professional psychiatric help. In fact, Dad has already spoken to a specialist who can admit her to a private retreat to recover. It's for the best."
Daniel slowly walked over to the bedside table, picked up Sarah's phone, and pressed a button.
The quiet room was instantly filled with the sound of Jason's mocking laughter: "Did you see how she flew? ... Stupid girl."
Jason’s smirk vanished. His face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ghostly white. Thomas stiffened, his eyes narrowing into cold slits as his own voice plotted the inheritance scheme through the speaker.
"Where did you get that?" Thomas hissed, his polished facade instantly evaporating, revealing the ruthless tyrant beneath.
"Sarah’s phone was recording the entire time," Daniel said, stepping directly into Thomas’s space. "Every word. The shove, the laughter, the plan to bribe a doctor to declare her incompetent. It's all right here."
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"You think this changes anything?" Thomas sneered, recovering his composure. "I own the local police department, Daniel. I fund the district attorney’s campaign. I can have that recording thrown out as illegally obtained before it ever touches a courtroom. Delete it now, and I’ll let you keep your job. Push this, and I will ruin your career, take your home, and ensure you never see a dime of the Morrison fortune."
"I don't care about your money, Thomas," Daniel said quietly, holding up his own phone, which showed an active upload screen. "And I didn't send this to the local police. I sent it to the federal prosecutor’s office, along with a copy to every major news outlet in the state. By tonight, the whole world is going to know exactly who you are."
