Chapter 190 Chapter Ninety-Five: A Date With Destiny.
Chapter 190 Chapter Ninety-Five: A Date With Destiny.
Chapter Ninety-Five: A Date With Destiny.
Life at Oxford had not truly returned to normal.
On the surface, routines resumed—lectures, labs, quiet lunches beneath ancient stone arches—but something had shifted. After the truth of Ileana’s life with the Thornes surfaced, her peers treated her as one might approach a cracked relic: carefully, reverently, afraid of touching something fragile.
Pity came first.
It followed her through hallways and hushed conversations, carried in looks that lingered a second too long.
Then the truth about her adoptive grandfather emerged.
And everything changed.
“No wonder she’s so brilliant—Wilbur Green raised her!”
“Raised her? She was his granddaughter. That’s amazing!”
“What does that even feel like? Growing up with a legend?”
The questions multiplied, sharper now, more intrusive. Admiration carried weight—expectation. Ileana learned quickly that being revered could feel just as isolating as being pitied. She answered what she could, deflected the rest, and kept her head down.
By the end of the second week, she was grateful the murmurs had begun to soften.
“Hey, hey—boss lady.”
Phoebe’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. Ileana blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the same page of her journal for several minutes.
She smiled faintly.
“Lunch?”
Phoebe slid into the seat across from her, tray clattering softly.
“Yeah. Since Matthews is gone, they still don’t have anyone to teach herbals.”
The name lingered between them.
Wyatt Matthews.
Or rather—Wyatt Veis.
The fallout had been immediate. His termination was swift, brutal. The medical board moved even faster. Licenses revoked. Credentials erased. The world of medicine, once again, found itself staring down the ghost of Doxoten.
And ghosts, it turned out, never stayed buried.
An emergency conference was called before the panic could spread further.
\------
The boardroom felt too small.
Voices overlapped, sharp with disbelief.
“We fought for decades to ban that compound!”
“And to find out it was Veis’s son—I didn’t even know Marlow Veis had a child.”
“None of us did. That was intentional.”
Chairs scraped as members sat. Papers rustled. No one met anyone else’s eyes.
At the head of the table, Chairman Kelsey Forman raised his hand.
“Enough.”
The room stilled.
“This emergency session concerns the reemergence of Doxoten and the individual responsible.”
A pause.
“Wyatt Matthews. Wyatt Veis.”
The name detonated.
“He continued his father’s work?”
“There are confirmed deaths.”
“How was he allowed to practice at all?”
Forman lifted his hand again, more sharply this time.
“Order.”
The silence that followed was heavy—expectant.
“Arrest warrants have been issued,”
he continued.
“Generals Trevosty and Levings are overseeing the search.”
A voice broke through.
“So he’s already gone.”
Forman did not answer immediately.
“…Yes. For now.”
A ripple of fear spread through the room.
“Until he is found,”
Forman said, sliding documents forward,
“we are voting on the permanent revocation of all medical, herbal, and pharmaceutical licenses across every kingdom.”
The vote was unanimous.
The decision felt final.
It was not.
\-------
Chairman Forman worked late that night.
The house was silent—too silent. His fingers moved stiffly across the keyboard, drafting reports, warnings, notifications. He stopped only when he heard something.
A soft sound. Fabric brushing against wood.
“Dorothy?”
he called, heart stuttering.
No answer.
He stood.
The door creaked open.
Forman froze.
A figure stepped forward, unhurried, his face emerging from shadow like something being remembered.
“No,”
the man said softly, almost polite.
“Dorothy won’t be answering.”
Forman’s mouth went dry.
“She’s resting,”
Wyatt continued.
“Permanently.”
The word settled into the room.
“M-Matt—”
Wyatt smiled.
“Come now, let’s keep it formal…Veis. Afterall...my father was genius. His name...MY name...it demands respect.”
Each step he took felt measured. Deliberate.
“What do you want?”
Forman whispered.
Wyatt stopped inches from the desk.
“I wanted to see how it felt.”
“How what—”
“The destruction of greatness,”
Wyatt said.
“Of my father.”
Forman swallowed.
“Your father was a murderer.”
“It was for the greater good of science.”
A laugh slipped from Forman before he could stop it.
Wyatt’s hand snapped forward, gripping his collar.
“What’s funny.”
“You are,”
Forman rasped.
“Calling atrocity progress. Your father hid murder behind intellect—and so do you.”
Wyatt’s expression did not change, his eyes blank. Cold.
“You’ve already killed four people,”
Forman continued, voice shaking but defiant.
“You’re not a visionary. You’re a disease. An abomination to medicine!”
Wyatt tilted his head.
Then smiled.
He tapped his cheek—once.
Forman’s body seized. His lungs refused him air. He collapsed into the chair, hands clawing uselessly at his chest.
Wyatt watched.
“Five,”
he said calmly.
“I’ve killed five.”
Forman gasped, eyes glassy.
“Don’t fight it,”
Wyatt murmured.
“You’ll be with Dorothy soon.”
The room went still.
Wyatt straightened his coat and stepped back into the dark.
\------
Ileana didn’t breathe.
The headline burned on her screen, the words blurring and sharpening all at once. Her fingers went numb. Somewhere across the table, Phoebe was still talking—laughing—until the sound cut off.
“Ilie?”
Phoebe said.
“Hey—Ilie?”
The phone slipped from Ileana’s trembling hand and landed face-up on the table.
Phoebe leaned in, her smile fading as she read.
BREAKING: Chairman Kelsey Forman and his wife of forty years, Dorothy Forman, were found deceased in their home this morning. Authorities report apparent heart attacks.
Phoebe swallowed.
“That’s…that’s awful.”
“No,”
Ileana whispered.
Her pulse roared in her ears, too loud, drowning out the café around her. Chairs scraped. Cups clinked. None of it mattered.
“That’s not what this is.”
She stood so abruptly her chair toppled backward.
“Ileana—wait—”
Keys. Bag. Door.
The world blurred into motion.
The SUV’s engine screamed as she tore out of the lot, hands slick on the wheel, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Buildings streaked past her peripheral vision. Red lights bled into green. She barely registered them.
“Daisy,”
she said, voice tight.
“Call Uncle Eddie.”
“Calling Uncle Eddie.”
Ring.
Ring.
Nothing.
Her jaw clenched.
“Shit—Call Uncle Walt.”
“Calling Uncle Walt.”
Again—ringing. Then silence.
Voicemail.
Her heart sank into her stomach.
They were already there.
Whatever killed the Formans, it wasn’t natural. It was clean. Quiet. Intentional.
Her foot slammed harder on the gas.
The private garage yawned open like a mouth.
She parked crooked, tires barely stopped before she was out of the car. The air felt wrong—thick, stagnant. Too still.
Her heels struck concrete as she hurried toward the private elevator, key already in hand.
Almost there.
Almost—
A sharp sting bit into her neck.
“What—?”
She instinctively grabbed her neck. Heat exploding beneath her skin.
It wasn’t pain exactly—more like fire laced with ice. Her arm went heavy. Her vision smeared, the edges of the world bending inward.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
“No—no, no—”
The floor tilted violently.
Her phone slipped free, hitting the ground with a hollow crack.
“Ileana?”
Remy’s voice burst from the speaker.
“Ilie? Talk to me. Ilie—say something!”
She tried.
Her tongue wouldn’t move.
Strong hands caught her as her knees gave out.
“Easy,”
a voice murmured close to her ear.
Too calm.
Too familiar.
Her thoughts scattered, slipping away like water through her fingers. The garage lights fractured into long, blinding streaks as she was lifted—weightless, helpless.
“Sorry, Loverboy,”
the voice said softly.
“You’re too late.”
Darkness swallowed the edges of her vision as she was carried into the shadow of a waiting vehicle.
“She’s mine now.”
The door slid shut.
Silence.
As the vehicle pulled away, Wyatt looked down at her slack form, satisfaction curling his lips into a twisted smile.
“Ready, little owl,”
he whispered.
The last thing Ileana felt was motion—forward, downward—before the world vanished completely.
“Destiny awaits.”