Damien sat in his study, the delicate band of a ring feeling heavier in his hand. The "accident" was a deliberate act of violence, and the ring was a tangible symbol of Sarah's shattered future. A strange sense of responsibility for her condition settled over him. Knowing the official police investigation would move too slowly, even with his help, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
He instructed Marco to begin a private, full-scale investigation, leveraging his extensive cybersecurity and intelligence networks. He wanted to know everything about Ethan Evans, Sarah Walker, and the people around them. With his plan set in motion, Damien headed to the hospital. He had to see her, to confirm the threat of her 'vulture' family was real. His inexplicable need to protect her now had a lethal justification.
Meanwhile, at the hospital, Sarah was reeling from the heart-breaking look on Mathilda's face—the anger, the pain, and the slap. That morgue encounter made her feel like it was all her fault and that without her, all of their lives would be easier. Sarah wished she were lying in the morgue instead of Ethan. Then she thought about her conversation with Chloe, sensing the hatred and resentment in her voice when speaking about William Walker, and questioning Chloe's fake care.
Those visits from Chloe and Caroline only deepened her unease and loneliness, and she questioned the inconsistencies in their stories and the suspicious papers they wanted her to sign.
The hospital room felt like a prison. She had to find the truth, and she felt Mathilda might hold the key. Waiting for a moment when the nurse wasn't looking, she attempted to sneak out in her wheelchair, struggling to manage it on her own.
As she struggled to wheel herself, she accidentally bumped into a man rushing in, preoccupied with a phone call regarding his grandmother. The man was Sam Wellington.
"I'm sorry," Sarah said, trying to move her wheelchair away.
"It's okay. Are you hurt?" Sam asked, his gaze lingering on her face. He noticed a faint laceration scar above her left eyebrow, a detail that sent a jolt of recognition— a memory buried decades deep. Could this be the girl from the orphanage? Could she be that same little girl?
Sarah: "Do I look hurt?"
Sam looked pointedly at her cast and head bandage, raising an eyebrow.
Sarah sighed. The realization hit her: she was powerless and knew nowhere to go. She had to give up the idea of running away. "I need to turn back…"
Sam: "What, now you're no longer running out of here?"
Sarah: "How did you know I'm running away from the hospital?" She looked at him sceptically.
Sam: "Just my guess, judging by your face." He smiled.
Sarah rolled her eyes and started laughing—a sound she hadn't made in a long time. She then looked at him with puppy eyes. "I wanted to leave, but now I just want to get back to my room... I can't drive this thing, it's exhausting…"
Sam found her cute. He took her wheelchair, turned it around, and said, "I'll help you back to your room. What's the room number?"
Sarah was about to answer—"It's..." —when her voice trailed off as a nurse and Doctor Miller arrived.
"Miss Walker, what are you doing here? You should be resting in your room," the doctor said, telling the new nurse to take her away. Sarah sighed in desperation. Sam, with a knowing smile, watched her frustration. He said, "Bye, Miss Walker," and she offered him an 'I give up' kind of smile. Sam laughed.
As they wheeled her away, Sam's thoughts returned to the scar. I have to know if this is her.
Dr. Miller: "Mr. Wellington, shall we head to your grandmother's ward?"
Sam: "How is she doing?"
Dr. Miller: "Much better. She has half of our hospital entertaining her."
After ensuring his grandmother was fine, Sam went to Dr. Miller's office to discuss equipment for the new hospital wing. Mid-conversation, Sam asked, "Tell me, Dr. Miller, who's that girl in the wheelchair that I met at the entrance earlier? What's her condition?"
Doctor Miller explained her condition and told him about the accident. Sam felt sorry for her, but the sense of familiarity lingered. Sarah Walker, who are you? Sam thought.
Later that day, Damien met Vance at a cafe near the hospital.
Vance: "Didn't think I'd see you today. I thought your grandfather locked you in your room to reflect on yourself."
Damien: "Joke all you want."
Vance became serious. "How's your arm?"
Damien: "Better. But that's not why I wanted to meet you."
Vance: "Let me guess... Sarah Walker?"
Damien nodded.
Vance: "You owe me one. My colleagues are starting to think that I have a thing for her. But now I have to take Brenda out for dinner. All because of you."
Damien: "Who's Brenda?"
Vance: "Sarah's nurse and our informant."
Damien started laughing. "Here." He took out a card. "Take Brenda somewhere fancy, since I'm paying."
Vance took the card, satisfied. He then told Damien everything Brenda had shared. "Being blamed for her son's death, and getting slapped for it... I can't imagine what that girl was going through. And I think Brenda is right when it comes to her family; they are circling around her like some vultures. That girl is really pitiful…" Vance let out a long breath.
Damien felt intensely bad for Sarah. As he got up, he gave Vance another card. "This is for her hospital fees. Help me to take care of it." Vance nodded, and Damien left.
Damien then called Marco again. "I have another task for you," he said. "The driver, Ethan Evans, his mother, Mathilda. Find her and offer your condolences, also give her a card. Go to her, but don't tell her who you really are. Tell her you were a friend of Ethan's, someone he helped a long time ago and now you're returning the favour. Also, tell her to be good to people Ethan loved."
Marco looked up the address and, a few hours later, stood outside a small, weathered house. The door was opened by a frail woman with hollow eyes and a face etched with grief. It was Mathilda Evans.
"Mrs. Evans?" Marco asked gently.
"Yes," she replied, her voice raspy.
"My name is Marcus. I'm... I was a friend of Ethan's. I heard about what happened and came to pay my respects."
Mathilda's eyes filled with tears. "He never mentioned you..."
Marco: "I just moved back to town. I've been abroad for a few years."
Mathilda: "Oh, that's why I haven't heard of you. Would you like to sit?"
Marco sat down on the small porch and took a sip of the glass of water Mathilda offered.
Mathilda: "How did you meet my Ethan?"
Marco, after a moment, said, "It was a few years ago. I was going through a tough time, struggling to get a small business off the ground. Ethan... he helped me out with a loan, a significant amount. He told me not to worry about paying him back until I was on my feet. He was one of the kindest people I've ever met. Now I've earned a lot of money, and I thought of finding him and giving him half, but..." He pulled a sleek black card from his pocket. "I know he's gone, but debt is debt, and I want to pay him back what I owe. And then some." He put the card in her hand. "He would have wanted you to take this, Mrs. Evans. He was a good man. Please."
Mathilda's hand trembled. "I... I can't take this. We don't take charity."
"This isn't charity, ma'am," Marco insisted, his voice gentle but firm. "This is a debt. A debt I owe to your son. It's the least I can do to honour his memory."
The weight of her grief and poverty made her shoulders slump. Finally, with a weary nod, she reluctantly accepted the card, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Marco then added, "Oh, I almost forgot, that girl that Ethan loved, I believe Sarah is her name... I hope you're getting along well with each other, Mrs. Evans. I know Ethan would like to see that." Mathilda thought about his words long after he left.
On his way back, Marco called Damien.
Marco: "I did exactly what you told me, boss. Mrs. Evans didn't suspect a thing. She's quite pitiful, actually. I felt her pain while she was talking about her son and the emptiness his departure left. He was the only person in her life. We both know how it feels to lose a loved one. I also mentioned Miss Walker. I don't think Mrs. Evans would do anything to harm Miss Walker; it was the heat of the moment, the pain spoke, but I feel like she's regretting it now."
Damien: "Good. I don't want her bothering Sarah and blaming her for her son's death."
Damien hung up and went to his apartment, his thoughts focused on Sarah's situation and how he could make it better. Then his phone rang. It was his grandfather, Don. Don was hosting a dinner at the Sterling manor, and his guests were the Wellingtons. Don's voice on the phone was cold, leaving no room for argument. "I am hosting a dinner for the Wellingtons at the manor tonight, and you will be present. Consider this your final warning, Damien: if you still value your standing—and your future—as my grandson, you will attend."