My God, someone get this woman out of here!
"What kind of proper care is this? This is the son of the Prime Minister!"
"Madam Akna, please calm down!"
"I want him transferred to one of my private hospitals right at this moment!"
"He is unstable. He has unexpected crises with unknown triggers."
"Madam Akna, he has flatlined three times so far!"
"Don't dare to raise your voice at me, brat. Security, get this disrespectful scum out of my eyes!"
She was in the middle of my room.
Lucrezia Akna.
Wearing that green Prada dress like it was a battlefield uniform. Black heels clicking on the floor every time she shifted. Her hair was pulled back tight in a bun. Pearls on her neck, pearls in her ears.
She looked rich, polished, furious.
But why?
Why would she be here?
She was yelling.
At the nurses.
At my doctor.
At the director of the hospital.
Everyone.
Her voice was sharp, loud, like she thought money gave her the right to scream. I couldn't move.
