Matteo POV The psychiatric hospital sat at the edge of the city, far away from curious eyes.
People rarely spoke about the place unless they needed someone to disappear quietly.
Tall iron gates surrounded the property.
The building itself looked more like a rich family’s estate than a hospital.
It’s very discreet, after all, and was the most expensive thing money could buy in this city, and I had paid handsomely for it.
I walked through the front entrance with my shoulders set in exactly the right posture, not too composed or patient.
A devastated man holding himself together not to break down.
I had practiced the walk in the mirror that morning, the particular way grief makes a man’s steps slightly uneven.
Dr.
Kessler was waiting in the lobby, wearing his white coat, his expression arranged into the same careful manner that I was paying him generously to maintain.
“Mr.
Edoardo.” He extended his hand.
“Please, follow me.” I nodded and walked beside him.
The hallway smelled of medicine and cleaning chemicals.
Underneath that was a soft floral scent, as if someone had tried to hide the fact that this was still a hospital.
As we passed one of the rooms, I looked through the small glass window.
Isabella.
She lay on a narrow bed.
An IV was attached to the back of her hand.
Her eyes were closed.
Her chest rose and fell slowly under the effects of the sedatives.
Someone had brushed her hair away from her face.
She looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Something moved in my chest at the sight of her.
I did not examine it too closely.
I did not have time for whatever that feeling wanted to become.
“She has been stable since admission,” Dr.
Kessler said, leading me past the window toward his office.
“Vitals are within normal range.
The sedation will be adjusted gradually over the coming days as we move her into the stabilization protocol.” “And the paperwork?” “Already prepared.” He opened the door to his office.
Files covered the desk, all neatly arranged.
I sat down as he slid a folder toward me.
“The intake assessment,” he said.
“Based on the history we discussed, supplemented by the observations from the scene this evening.” I opened it.
“The patient presents with severe psychological distress following the end of a long-term relationship.
History suggests unstable behavior over the past six months, including unexplained absences, heavy alcohol use, and possible substance abuse.
Family and witness statements corroborate a pattern of declining mental stability.” I read it twice with so much satisfaction.
“The six-month history,” I said.
“Walk me through how that was established.” “We created records of previous consultations.
Three separate appointments.
Each one properly documented and dated according to the timeline you gave us.” He folded his hands.
“A colleague of mine handled the second and third entries to avoid any single physician’s signature appearing too frequently in a short period.
It reads as a gradual decline.
Exactly the picture the courts respond to.” “And if anyone questions the records directly?” “They won’t find any mistakes.” He spoke with confidence, “I have done this before, Mr.
Edoardo.
Discreetly, and successfully.” I closed the folder “One more thing,” I said.
“A supporting statement.
From a family member who witnessed the decline firsthand.” “Vanessa Hart,” he said, already reaching for a second folder.
“She came in an hour ago.
Her statement is prepared.” He handed it to me.
I read every line.
The worried stepsister.
The late-night phone calls.
The strange behavior.
Her fear and heartbreak.
The moment she found Isabella unconscious on the living room floor and made the painful decision to call for help.
Every word sounded exactly as I had instructed.
At the bottom, Vanessa’s nest signature.
Practiced exactly the way I had asked her to practice it.
I thought of her face an hour earlier, standing over Isabella’s collapsed body with a satisfied expression, and felt nothing close to guilt.
Vanessa had made her choices long before tonight.
We all made choices in life.
“This is good,” I said quietly.
Dr.
Kessler nodded.
He looked very pleased, the particular pleasure of a man who knew exactly how much his discretion was worth and intended to be paid accordingly.
“There is a formal interview required,” he said.
“Standard procedure, though in this case largely procedural.
I will need a statement from you as well, as the most immediate family contact listed.” “Of course.” He placed a recorder on the desk.
“Mr.
Edoardo,” he said, “please describe the events that led to Isabella’s admission.” I lowered my voice and added just enough pain.
Just enough heartbreak.
“Isabella and I were engaged for four years,” I began softly.
“Over the last several months, I watched her fall apart.” I looked down at my hands.
“The drinking got worse.
She disappeared for days sometimes.
When she came back, she couldn’t explain where she had been.” I stopped.
Let the silence do some of the work.
“I tried everything.
I begged her to get help,” I continued.
“I begged her to see a therapist.
She refused.” I swallowed.
“Tonight, her stepsister found her unconscious.
That’s when we realized we couldn’t wait any longer.” Dr.
Kessler clicked the recorder off.
“That will do nicely,” he said.
He gathered all the documents into one thick file and pushed it toward me.
“The final authorization,” he said.
“Your signature confirms the admission and grants the facility temporary guardianship over treatment decisions, pending the standard review period.” I picked up the pen.
For one moment, I remembered Isabella’s face from four years ago.
The first time she laughed at one of my jokes.
She looked at me as if I was someone worth trusting.
I buried the memory.
This was not cruelty, it’s simply what needed to happen.
Eleanor would fight, of course she would.
Still, she would fight from outside locked doors, negotiating for visitation, distracted exactly as I needed her distracted, while the board meeting approached; the shares and the company would become mine.
I signed my name.
Dr.
Kessler checked the signature and nodded.
“It’s done,” he said.
“Isabella Hart is officially under our care, pending full psychiatric evaluation.
The formal diagnosis will be filed with the court tomorrow morning.” I stood and buttoned my jacket.
We walked out of the office.
For the last time, I looked toward the hallway leading to Isabella’s room.
“Take good care of her, Doctor,” I said quietly.
“She is my jackpot.” Dr.
Kessler’s face didn’t change.
I walked through the lobby and stepped into the cold night air.
As I reached for my phone, I already knew what I needed to do next.
I called Eleanor.
She answered on the second ring.
“Matteo.
Where is Isabella?
She is not at home.
I have called her a dozen times…” “Where she belongs,” I let my own voice catch, just slightly, just enough.
“And your performance determines if you can see her or not.”