The Amazing Doctor Sterling

Chapter 4

Ten minutes passed.

George sat comfortably on the leather sofa, his leg crossed over his knee. He was talking calmly about the upcoming hospital charity mixer downstairs.

On the opposite sofa, Vincent stopped talking mid-sentence.

He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if trying to clear a sudden fog. His hand lifted to rub his temples. "It's... it's really warm in here," Vincent mumbled, his speech slightly slurred.

Tiffany frowned, looking at her gold watch. It had been twelve minutes since the toast. She turned her eyes toward George, expecting to see him slumping over the armrest.

Instead, George was sitting up straight, completely alert, watching them both with dark, unblinking eyes.

"Vincent?" Tiffany asked, her voice tight with confusion. "Are you okay?"

"I don't... my legs feel ," Vincent stammered. He tried to stand up from the sofa, but his knees buckled instantly. He crashed back onto the cushions, his head rolling to the side. The empty crystal glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the carpet.

"Vincent!" Tiffany gasped, jumping up. She looked at the broken glass, then turned her head slowly toward George. Total panic spilled across her face. "What... what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything, Tiffany," George said quietly. He stood up from the sofa and buttoned his suit jacket. "Vincent seems to have had too much wine. Or perhaps he can't handle his medication."

"You..." Tiffany’s chest heaved. She stepped backward, her hands trembling. "You switched the glasses."

George walked around the table until he was standing inches away from his wife. He didn't look like the gentle, obedient husband she had manipulated for three years. His face was cold, hard, and entirely expressionless.

"Why would I switch a glass, darling?" George whispered, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm. "Unless there was something in it?"

Tiffany opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She was paralyzed by the realization that her trap had completely misfired.

"He's unconscious," George said, looking down at Vincent’s limp body on the sofa. "We shouldn't leave him here alone. He might aspirate. I'll take him downstairs to a guest room so he can sleep it off."

"No!" Tiffany cried, grabbing George’s arm. "We can't leave him in a room! The mixer is starting downstairs! People will be looking for him!"

"Then you should go downstairs and make excuses for him," George said. He grabbed her wrist, peeling her fingers off his coat with a steady, unbreakable grip. "Go to the ballroom, Tiffany. Smile for the board members. I will handle Dr. Dean."

Tiffany looked at Vincent, then looked at George. She was terrified of what George knew, but she was even more terrified of causing a scene. She swallowed hard, turned on her heels, and practically ran out of Suite 402.

Once the door clicked shut, George looked down at Vincent.

"Up you go, partner," George said calmly.

He hauled Vincent’s , unconscious frame off the sofa, draping the doctor’s arm over his shoulders. Using the quiet service elevator at the end of the hall, George carried Vincent down to the third floor.

He walked down the carpeted hallway until he stopped in front of Room 304.

George reached into Vincent’s jacket pocket and pulled out a keycard. Vincent had checked into this room earlier under a false name, preparing the stage for George’s destruction.

George tapped the card against the lock. The green light flashed.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dim, illuminated only by a single bedside lamp. Lying on the king-sized bed, wearing a thin, revealing silk robe, was Clara Vance. She was scrolling on her phone, waiting for Vincent and Tiffany to drag an unconscious George into the room so she could pose for the staged photographs.

When she heard the door open, she sat up quickly, putting on an immediate act of feigned distress. "Oh! Please, don't,"

She stopped.

She stared at George, who was standing fully conscious in the doorway, supporting the limp, drooling body of Dr. Vincent Dean.

"What is this?" Clara asked, dropping her act. Her voice was sharp and confused. "Where is the guy? Why is Dr. Dean passed out?"

"There's been a slight change of plans, Miss Vance," George said smoothly.

He walked over to the bed and dumped Vincent’s unconscious body onto the mattress right next to her.

"Hey! Get him off me!" Clara yelled, trying to push Vincent’s frame away. "Dr. Dean paid me five thousand dollars to take pictures with you! I'm not doing this!"

"Dr. Dean is currently sedated with ten milligrams of Triazolam," George said, pulling a pair of medical examination gloves from his pocket and snapping them onto his hands. "He stole the compound from the hospital psychiatric ward yesterday. His fingerprints are on the pharmacy ledger."

Clara’s eyes went wide. "What are you talking about? I don't want any trouble with the police!"

"You already have trouble, Clara," George said. He reached into his coat and pulled out his phone, holding up the screen. On it was a digital audio file,a recording of Clara’s conversation with Vincent from three days ago, which George had retrieved from Vincent’s unlocked tablet upstairs.

"I'll tear my dress and say Dr. Sterling forced me into the room," Clara’s recorded voice played clearly from the speaker. "Just make sure the money is in my account by midnight."

Clara’s face drained of all color. She began to tremble. "Please... don't give that to the cops. I'll go to jail!"

"You won't go to jail," George said coldly. "If you do exactly what I tell you."

"What do you want me to do?" she cried.

"You are going to stay right where you are," George instructed. "When the door opens in ten minutes, you are going to tell the truth,that Dr. Vincent Dean brought you to this room, used hospital narcotics, and attempted to assault you."

"But Dr. Dean will kill me!"

"If you don't," George whispered, leaning over the bed, "I will hand this recording to the District Attorney, and you will serve seven years for federal extortion and conspiracy. Your choice."

Clara looked at the unconscious, snoring Dr. Dean, then looked at George’s terrifyingly calm eyes. She nodded frantically. "Okay! Okay, I'll do it!"

George smiled faintly. He peeled off his gloves, dropped them into his pocket, and walked out of Room 304, leaving the door unlocked behind him.

He walked down the hallway to a quiet alcove near the elevators. He pulled out the black card Elena Maxwell had given him earlier today, dialed the number on his phone, and waited two rings.

"Miss Maxwell," George said when she answered. "It's Dr. Sterling."

"Dr. Sterling," Elena’s voice came through, alert and professional. "Is something wrong with my father?"

"Your father is fine," George said. "But I have a situation at the Grand Celestial Hotel. I need you to contact the Chairman of the Hospital Board, Dr. Webber, and the medical correspondents from the City Herald. Tell them there is an urgent ethical crisis occurring in Room 304."

"What kind of crisis?" Elena asked.

"The kind that removes a corrupt surgeon from this city forever," George said.

There was a brief pause on the line. Then, Elena spoke, her tone cold and decisive. "Give me eight minutes."

Nine minutes later, the elevator doors on the third floor slid open.

Dr. Webber, the Chairman of the Hospital Board, marched down the hallway. Behind him were two hospital legal advisors, three hotel security guards, and two reporters from the City Herald carrying cameras.

Right behind the crowd, looking breathless and panicked, was Tiffany. She had seen the board members leaving the mixer downstairs and had followed them, terrified that something had gone wrong.

"This is ridiculous," Dr. Webber huffed as they marched down the corridor. "Dr. Dean is our leading surgical candidate. Why would he be,"

He stopped in front of Room 304. The door was slightly ajar.

From inside the room, Clara’s voice rang out, sobbing loudly. "Please! Someone help me! He's drugged me!"

Dr. Webber pushed the door open.

The cameras flashed instantly.

The reporters pushed into the room, capturing the entire scene: Dr. Vincent Dean, half-undressed, lying unconscious on the bed, while Clara Vance sat in the corner, clutching her torn robe and crying for help. On the nightstand, clearly visible under the lamp, sat an empty pharmaceutical vial labeled City Hospital - Psychiatric Division - Triazolam.

"Good Lord," Dr. Webber gasped, his face turning purple with rage and shock. "He's... he's abused hospital narcotics! On a patient!"

"Take pictures! Get the vial!" one of the reporters shouted.

Tiffany stood in the doorway, paralyzed. She stared at Vincent on the bed. Her grand plan to ruin her husband had just exploded directly in her lover's face. Vincent’s career was dead. He would lose his license, go to prison, and never touch a scalpel again.

"Looking for someone, darling?"

Tiffany spun around.

George was standing gracefully in the hallway behind her. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, his suit immaculate, his expression completely serene.

"George," Tiffany whispered, her voice shaking with terror. "You... you did this."

"I simply survived, Tiffany," George said softly, leaning down so only she could hear him. "You should be careful who you invite for drinks."

Before Tiffany could scream at him, the elevator doors opened again.

Elena Maxwell walked into the hallway, accompanied by her corporate attorney. She ignored the chaos in Room 304 and walked directly up to George. She didn't look at Tiffany at all.

"Dr. Sterling," Elena said clearly, her voice carrying over the noise of the reporters. "My father is awake and asking for you. Furthermore, the Maxwell Group has just purchased a forty percent controlling stake in City Hospital."

Dr. Webber turned around from the doorway, his eyes widening in shock. "Miss Maxwell? Controlling stake?"

Elena looked at Dr. Webber coldly. "With Dr. Dean clearly facing federal prison, the Maxwell Group has a condition for our continued financial endowment. We want Dr. George Sterling appointed as the new Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery and Head of the Medical Board, effective immediately."

Tiffany gasped, taking a step back until her shoulders hit the wall.

She looked at her husband. He wasn't a pathetic loser. He wasn't a man she could discard like trash. He was standing beside the most powerful billionaire family in the city, untouchable and supreme.

George looked down at his wife's pale, trembling face. He didn't smile. He didn't gloat.

He simply adjusted his coat and looked at Elena.

"Let's go check on your father, Miss Maxwell," George said.

He walked toward the elevator, leaving Tiffany alone in the hallway to watch her entire world burn to ashes.