Chapter 4 - The Medical Conspiracy
The poison was subtle.
It began with my morning coffee.
For two weeks, I noticed a tiny, metallic aftertaste in the espresso Sloan prepared for me every morning before my board meetings.
I didn't drink it. The moment she turned her back to wash a bowl, I poured the liquid into a hidden thermos disguised as a water bottle inside my briefcase, replacing it with plain dark coffee from a hidden pouch in my coat.
I sent the samples to a toxicologist in Boston.
The results came back three days later: Thallium sulphate.
A heavy metal toxin. Odorless, tasteless in small doses. Prolonged exposure causes chronic fatigue, severe memory lapses, disorientation, trembling hands, and symptoms that mimic early-onset dementia or severe psychiatric breakdown.
They weren't waiting for stress to discredit me.
They were actively frying my nervous system to force an emergency psychiatric commitment.
On Tuesday morning, Preston arrived at my estate with two men dressed in formal suits. He introduced them as Dr. Marcus Thorne and Dr. Aris Vance—two prominent neuro-psychiatrists specializing in executive stress management.
"Vincent," Preston said, his face brimming with practiced sympathy as we sat in my living room. "Sloan called me last night. She was crying, man. She said you forgot where you parked your car on Tuesday, and that you screamed at her over a missing file."
I sat in my armchair, leaning back, letting my hands tremble slightly on my lap. I allowed my eyes to look slightly unfocused, staring at the rug.
"I... I've just been tired, Preston," I stammered softly, playing the broken man. "The port negotiations... the supply chain delays... I haven't slept."
Dr. Thorne leaned forward, opening a leather folder.
"Mr. Moretti," Thorne said in a soothing, hypnotic tone. "Early cognitive decline under immense stress is very common among high-level CEOs. We strongly recommend a short fourteen-day evaluation at our private retreat in Vermont. Just a quiet place to rest while Preston handles the corporate filings."
I looked at Sloan, who stood near the doorway, holding a handkerchief to her lips, looking heartbroken.
"You need help, darling," Sloan whimpered, her voice trembling. "For me. For the baby."
I looked at Preston. I could see the quiet, triumphant gleam in his eyes. He was holding the incapacity declaration forms right inside his leather briefcase.
"All right," I whispered, bowing my head. "If you think it's best... I'll sign the preliminary evaluation papers."
Preston pulled out the documents instantly, handing me a pen.
I signed my name on the dotted line.
May you like
The moment my signature dried, Preston’s body language shifted. His posture grew taller, his tone sharper, the fake brotherhood vanishing like mist.
"Thank you, Vincent," Preston said, slipping the paper into his briefcase. "We'll schedule the transfer for Friday afternoon. After the board meeting."
