Amy Sinclair wouldn’t have stepped into this lion’s den unprepared. She halted abruptly, her expression unreadable as she locked eyes with the imposing figure before her. When she spoke, her voice was steady, betraying none of the tension coiling inside her.

"If you release Samantha, I can provide the treatment Margaret requires," she stated, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Alexander Blackwood froze mid-step, his piercing gaze turning glacial as he pivoted sharply toward her. "So, you do have what my mother needs," he murmured, suspicion lacing every syllable.

Amy dismissed his hostility with an effortless shrug. "Mr. Blackwood, you’ve always prided yourself on being the perfect son. Surely, you wouldn’t stand by and watch Margaret suffer when the solution is right in front of you?"

A bitter smirk twisted his lips. "You’ve grown quite skilled at bargaining, Amy."

She offered a faint, knowing smile. "There’s a time for sentiment and a time for strategy. You didn’t spare Samantha out of kindness, did you?"

"I’m merely taking a page from your book—playing by your rules. Is that so wrong?"

Human nature was nothing if not hypocritical.

Pain was just an abstract concept until it struck home.

Had Alexander ever considered how it felt when he forced Victoria’s whims upon her? Now that the tables had turned, suddenly it was unbearable?

Victoria had always loved putting him in impossible positions, hadn’t she?

Fine. Let him make his choice now.

Let’s see what mattered more—his mother’s well-being, or his obsession with avenging Victoria.

Alexander studied her for an excruciatingly long moment.

Amy held his gaze, unwavering, until he finally looked away, disappointment shadowing his features.

She’d stopped expecting anything from him years ago. Let him believe whatever he wanted—she was done justifying herself.

"Fine," Alexander conceded at last. "Bring the medicine, and Samantha walks free."

Amy nodded. "Deal."

The next morning, Amy wound through narrow, forgotten alleys until she reached a dilapidated herbal shop, its faded sign barely clinging to the weathered wood.

The moment she stepped inside, the pungent scent of dried herbs enveloped her.

Behind the counter sat an elderly man with silver-streaked hair, peering through thick spectacles as he sniffed a bundle of herbs and scribbled notes in a worn ledger.

Amy approached quietly. "Mr. Whitmore."

Theodore Whitmore didn’t glance up. "Back for more, are you? I told you—last time was the final batch."

Amy hesitated. "Mr. Whitmore, I was hoping—"

He cut her off with a sharp wave. "Not happening. Get out."

Theodore, at seventy, was infamous for his temperament. But his skill was unparalleled. When Amy learned of Margaret’s chronic migraines, she’d scoured the city to find him, determined to win her favor.

On her first visit, he’d taken one look at her and slammed the door in her face. His reason? He didn’t like her shoes.

Amy had met her share of eccentric people, but none quite like him.

Maybe it was a bad day, she’d reasoned. So she returned the next morning—only to be dismissed again.

For a week straight, she showed up. Finally, he’d deigned to acknowledge her.

"I only treat those in genuine need. You reek of privilege. With your family’s fortune, why waste time on an old man like me?"

Amy chose her words carefully. "Mr. Whitmore, they say you can cure what modern medicine can’t. That you work miracles."