Chapter 11: The Second Opinion

I demanded to see Dr. Thorne the next afternoon.

"I need a blood test," I told Mark when he came home for lunch. "I want to know why I'm hallucinating. If it's the medication, I need to know the levels."

Mark sighed, that same weary, patient sound that was starting to make my skin crawl. "Elara, we've been over this. Dr. Thorne is very busy."

"He's a concierge doctor, Mark. We pay him a retainer so he's *not* busy."

I didn't wait for his permission. I grabbed the landline from the bedside table—the one communication device they hadn't taken yet—and dialed the number memorized on the magnet downstairs.

It rang once.

"Vance residence," Chloe said.

I froze. She wasn't in the room. She was downstairs, intercepting the call from the kitchen extension.

"I'm calling Dr. Thorne," I said, my voice tight.

"I already called him," she said smoothly. "He's on his way. Mark thought it would be a good idea for him to assess you again. Given last night's episode."

The line clicked dead.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. I heard the murmur of voices in the foyer—Mark's low baritone, Chloe's soft alto, and a third voice, brisk and professional.

Dr. Thorne walked into the room a moment later. He was a tall man with silver hair and a stethoscope that looked more like jewelry than a medical instrument. He smelled of expensive soap and apathy.

He didn't look at me. He looked at the chart Chloe handed him.

"Pulse is elevated," Chloe said. "She's been agitated all morning. Refusing fluids."

"I'm not refusing fluids," I said, sitting up. "I'm refusing the poison you're putting in them."

Thorne finally glanced at me. His eyes were flat, uninterested. He walked over to the bed and shone a penlight in my eyes, blinding me momentarily.

"Pupils are dilated," he murmured to Mark, who was hovering in the doorway. "Classic sign of withdrawal psychosis."

"I am not going through withdrawal," I snapped, batting his hand away. "I'm lucid. I saw photos on the cloud server, Dr. Thorne. Photos of Mark and Chloe together years ago. Photos that prove they're lying to you."

Thorne didn't even blink. He made a note on his chart.

"Paranoid delusions," he said. "Fixation on conspiracy."

"Listen to me!" I grabbed his wrist. His skin was cool and dry. "Test my blood. Right now. Test it for Clozapine."

Thorne pulled his arm back, wiping his wrist on his lab coat as if I were contagious.

"Elara," he said, his voice a practiced drone of medical condescension. "We discussed the treatment plan. Your body is recovering from a major trauma. Your mind is trying to make sense of the pain by creating narratives."

"Mark," I said, looking past the doctor to my husband. "Tell him. Tell him about the ring."

Mark looked at the floor. "She thinks I'm married to my sister," he said softly. "She thinks we're... involved."

Thorne shook his head, a gesture of professional sorrow. "It's more advanced than I thought. We may need to consider a more secure environment if she doesn't stabilize."

"Secure environment?" I whispered. "You mean a psych ward?"

"It's for your own safety, Elara," Chloe said from the hallway. She was standing just behind Mark, her hand resting lightly on his lower back. "We just want you to get better."

Thorne snapped his bag shut. "I'm increasing the sedative dosage. Intramuscular if she refuses oral administration."

He turned to Mark, lowering his voice, but the door was cracked just enough for the sound to carry.

"She's becoming agitated, just like we discussed," Thorne said. "If she fights the new regimen, call me. I can have the transport team here in an hour."