Chapter 44: The Injection
I spent the next hour pacing our bedroom like a caged animal, my newfound clarity warring with months of psychological conditioning that still whispered I should trust Adrian, let him handle everything, stop making trouble.
Clinging to the fragile hope that Amari might somehow have received my message. But the silence stretched on, heavy and unbroken, until it felt like abandonment—confirmation that I truly was as alone as Adrian wanted me to believe.
When footsteps finally echoed in the hallway, they brought company. Multiple voices murmured beyond our door, and my stomach dropped with the certainty that my time was up.
Adrian entered first, followed by a stranger—middle-aged, professionally dressed, carrying a leather medical bag that could transform me from wife to patient in an instant.
“Calla, darling,” Adrian said with the kind of gentle concern that would fool anyone watching, “this is Dr. James. He’s a colleague of Dr. Hayes, here to help with your current distress.”
“I’m not distressed,” I said, though my voice shook with the lie. “I’m angry. There’s a difference and I don’t need help,” I said, backing toward the window. “I need answers about my son.”
“The patient is presenting with paranoid ideation and false memory syndrome,” Adrian said to Dr. James as if I weren’t there. “She’s convinced she had a child who survived birth, despite clear medical evidence to the contrary.”
“Mrs. Thorne,” Dr. James said in a soothing voice, “I understand you’re experiencing distressing thoughts. These medications will help calm your mind so we can sort through what’s real and what’s being created by stress and trauma.”
“What’s real is that my husband stole my child and has been drugging me into compliance for months.”
Dr. James glanced at Adrian with the kind of look that said he’d heard similar accusations before.
“Paranoid delusions often focus on the people closest to us,” Adrian said sadly. “It’s heartbreaking to see someone you love consumed by these kinds of fears.”
“I won’t take anything,” I said, pressing against the window. “You can’t force me to—”
“Actually, when a patient is presenting immediate danger to themselves or others due to psychiatric distress, we can administer emergency treatment for their own safety.”
“Thomas,” Adrian called, and our head of security appeared, his expression apologetically professional.
“I’m not dangerous,” I said desperately. “I’m just asking questions about my own life—”
Thomas moved into the room with careful competence, clearly having done this before.
“Please don’t make this more difficult than necessary,” Adrian said with genuine regret. “The sooner you accept treatment, the sooner you’ll feel better.”
I thought of the phone, of the message I’d sent into the void, of Amari who might never see it or might not care if she did.
“No,” I said, the word carrying every buried rebellion I had left.
Thomas caught my arms gently but implacably, preventing escape without hurting me. Professional restraint that would leave no marks.
“Please don’t fight this,” Adrian said, his voice carrying what might have been genuine pain. “The medication will make everything peaceful again.”
Dr. James approached with a syringe filled with clear liquid that promised oblivion.
“This won’t hurt. You’ll just feel very relaxed, and when you wake up, these frightening thoughts will be much more manageable.”
The needle slid into my arm, and immediately I felt the familiar loosening, the fog creeping through my thoughts.
“That’s better,” Adrian said softly, stroking my hair as Thomas released me. “Just let go, darling. Let me take care of everything.”
Even as the chemicals began their work, even as my anger started to blur, I held onto one desperate thought:
Somewhere in the digital darkness, a message waited. Evidence of what had been done to me.
If anyone cared enough to look.
If anyone remembered I’d once been worth saving.
The darkness claimed me with Adrian’s face as the last thing I saw—handsome, concerned, and absolutely without remorse.