No One Suspects the Perfect Daughter-in-Law

Sloane's POV

During routine rounds, I never gave Linus Crewe a second thought. Nineteen years old, diagnosed with persistent hallucinatory disorder, just another trust fund kid tossed into the psych ward like garbage by his own family.

But that day, he locked eyes with me and claimed that the moment his skin touched someone else's, he could see their deepest, darkest secrets.

I scoffed. As a female doctor who married into money, harbored a thirst for revenge, and kept a secret lover on the side, someone seeing through my facade was my ultimate nightmare.

I thought he was just playing mind games.

Until he recounted, word for word, things even my husband didn't know. He just smiled and said: Then tell me, Dr. Hollister... why is your heart racing when you look at me?

"Why is Dr. Hollister so lucky? Mr. Whitfield treats her like a queen, and even Director Caldwell praises her to anyone who'll listen."

"She's only thirty-two! The youngest female attending physician in the whole hospital—just because she married Director Caldwell's own son?"

"Shh, keep your voice down, she was just in the hallway..."

From behind a locker in the Blackwell dressing room, I listened to the young nurses gossiping through the wall, their voices dripping with thinly veiled jealousy.

I closed my locker and straightened the collar of my white coat.

Four years of marriage was enough for everyone in East Haverlock to brand me a trophy wife who slept her way to the top. Let them talk. What they didn't know was that I had a timeline in my head.

In just a few months, the failing heart of Lawrence Caldwell—my highly respected father-in-law—would quietly stop beating on some peaceful morning.

When that happened, my husband Whit would cry like a lost little boy, and the funeral would be held in the drizzling rain, elegant and mournful. And I, as his most trusted wife and private attending physician, would take over the entire Caldwell medical empire in a deeply sorrowful, yet entirely legal manner.

Everything was right on track.

I pushed open the dressing room door, walked down the main corridor, and headed straight for the East Wing.

The East Wing was Blackwell's gold mine. The patients in these twelve rooms were the dirty little secrets of prominent families that could never see the light of day. I did routine rounds every week. Lawrence had even praised my "rare compassion among doctors of this generation" at the board meeting.

Compassion? Babysitting the messes of these old-money families meant holding the leverage that kept their massive checks clearing.

As I pushed open the heavy, soundproof door of Room 7, I shut off my thoughts and put on my airtight clinical mask.

The occupant of the room was sitting in a wingback chair by the window.

Linus Crewe, nineteen. Primary diagnosis: Persistent hallucinatory disorder with mild social withdrawal.

"Good afternoon, Linus." I pulled up a chair by the bed, flipping open my clipboard. "Have you been taking your Abilify on time this week? How's your sleep?"

"If I say yes, will you wrap up this little dog-and-pony show five minutes early, Dr. Hollister?" His voice had the raw edge of a recently broken adolescent tone, but the mockery in it was way beyond his years.

I looked up. Textbook teenage rebellion, mixed with the side effects of psychotropic meds.

"These are mandatory clinical questions. Your family pays an exorbitant bill every month to make sure you don't hang yourself with the bedsheets."

"Cold." Linus smirked. Suddenly, he sat up straight and leaned forward—those grayish-blue eyes invading my personal space. "I haven't been taking my meds. When I swallow those capsules, I can't see the things anymore."

"Cute excuse." I pulled a penlight from my pocket. "What kind of 'things'? CIA micro-drones? Man-eating plants growing out of the walls? If it's the latter, we need to switch your prescription."

"Neither." He didn't back down; instead, he locked eyes with me. "I see things normal people can't."

I was genuinely amused by his spooky little act. I clicked my pen, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

"Listen, Linus. I'm not interested in the ghost stories of an attention-starved rich kid." I stood up, looking down at him. "If you want attention, go smash a window in the hallway. Don't play the psychic with me. Arm out. Let's check your pulse."

I expected him to instinctively shrink back like he usually did.

He didn't.

Linus reached out—not to lay his arm flat on the table, but to grab my wrist in a precise, forceful grip.

"What are you doing—"

"You think I'm talking crazy." He leaned an inch closer.

We were so close I could see the prominent ridge of his ear cartilage and the dark undercurrents swirling in his grayish-blue eyes.

"You're nervous, Dr. Hollister." His gaze dropped from my eyes to the massive diamond on my ring finger. "Your heart is racing."

"Stop looking at me like I'm a lunatic, Dr. Hollister."

He slowly let go. The icy temperature of his fingers lingered on my skin.

Linus leaned back into his chair, a playful, victorious glint in his eyes.

"I see you don't believe me." He stared dead into my eyes and licked his lips. "But you'll believe me sooner or later, Dr. Hollister. And I promise you, you'll definitely regret what you said today."