Chapter 613
Harrison remained in the Whitmore family estate, meticulously preparing the antidote, when the door creaked open.
A young maid entered hesitantly. "Mrs. Margaret requests your presence immediately."
Margaret wanted to see her?
Harrison didn't bother glancing up, her voice cool and detached. "I'm occupied."
The maid stiffened, clearly shocked by the refusal. "You—you can't refuse! Mrs. Margaret summoned you personally. This is unacceptable!"
A humorless laugh escaped Harrison's lips. The fact that even a servant dared to speak to her this way spoke volumes about how little the Whitmores respected her.
"Let me make something clear," Harrison said, finally lifting her gaze. "I was brought here to formulate an antidote. Your family sought me out—not the other way around. If she wants something, she can come to me herself."
The maid's face flushed with indignation. "Fine!"
With a huff, she stormed out, clearly furious.
Moments later, the maid burst into Margaret's chambers. The elderly woman turned eagerly. "Where is Harrison?"
"She refused to come!"
Margaret's brows knitted together. "What do you mean?"
"She was insufferable! Said if you needed her, you should go to her instead."
Margaret froze, shock rippling through her.
Her beloved Theodore lay in a hospital bed, declared vegetative by the finest specialists. Harrison was her only hope.
"Very well," Margaret muttered through gritted teeth. "I'll go to her."
She marched straight to Harrison's quarters.
"Harrison," Margaret began, forcing a polite tone.
Harrison glanced up, a smirk playing on her lips. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
Margaret opened her mouth, but Harrison cut her off.
"Let me guess. Theodore's condition has worsened. The doctors have given up. And now, you've come crawling to me."
Margaret's breath hitched. Harrison's sharp, perceptive gaze gleamed with intelligence—almost unnervingly so.
In that moment, Margaret understood why men like Nathaniel were so captivated by her.
She swallowed hard. "Theodore hasn't regained consciousness. The physicians say he never will. He's... vegetative."
Harrison's lashes lowered slightly. She had been prepared to treat Theodore earlier, but Victoria had intervened. Even then, seeing him drenched in blood had told her everything.
Margaret stepped closer, desperation bleeding into her voice. "You're the renowned Dr. Sinclair! You can save him, can't you? You can wake him."
A slow, knowing smile curved Harrison's lips. "Yes. I can."
Relief flooded Margaret's features. She seized Harrison's wrist. "Then come with me now! Please—save my son!"
Harrison yanked her arm free, her expression turning glacial.
"I can save him," she said softly. "But why should I?"
Margaret recoiled. "What—"
"I need a reason to heal someone. Theodore means nothing to me. Why would I lift a finger for him?" Harrison's voice dripped with mocking amusement.
Margaret scrambled for leverage. "Theodore is your uncle! If Benjamin were alive, he would beg you to help!"
At the mention of her father, Harrison's eyes turned to ice.
The audacity.
Did Margaret truly believe she had forgotten how Benjamin died—and who had orchestrated it?