E L A R A

The morning feels sharp, cold and unforgiving. Reporters clog the boardwalk outside the hall, microphones lifted like weapons. I can hear the shutters clicking before I even reach the steps.

Ethan’s already at the door, jaw tight, radio in his fist. “They moved the hearing up an hour,” he murmurs. “Less time to prepare.”

“Or less time to think,” I mutter. My palms are damp around the folder I printed at three a.m., every chart, every supply request, every denial stamped by someone pretending it was Adrian’s call.

Inside, the air-conditioning hums too cold, rows of chairs, board members on a dais polished to mirror shine. At the center: Isabella Valcrosse, perfect posture, grief carved into discipline. Adrian sits two seats away from her. His tie’s gone crooked, that, somehow, hurts more than all the cameras.

When he looks at me, I can’t read it, not anger or relief but something quieter, like he already knows what I’m about to do. The clerk calls my name and the microphone blinks red, and I swear in, voice catching on the word truth.

Outside, a wave hits the sea wall hard enough to shake the glass. They start with Asha. her hands tremble around the paper cup they let her bring to the stand. She answers cleanly, steadying halfway through like she’s remembering who she is. Yes, the clinic was short-staffed, Yes, requests were denied. No, Dr. Quinn didn’t exaggerate.

The board murmurs; pens scratch, then Marina takes the mic. The room shifts colder, she smiles for the cameras and calls every failure “a miscommunication,” every missing supply “in transit.” Her voice could butter knives. “Our internal audits show compliance across all quarters.”

Adrian’s cousin, Callum Valcrosse, Operations nods along, sleeves rolled, confidence slick as oil. “We have signatures from Dr. Quinn confirming receipt,” he adds. “Any shortages were handled.”

I feel the blood leave my hands, I never signed those,  Marina passes printed logs down the table. My name loops across them in perfect, false cursive. Callum’s smirk says try to prove otherwise. Isabella’s gaze stays pinned on the pages, Adrian’s doesn’t move at all.

When the chairwoman asks if I’d like to respond, I stand before I can second-guess it. My knees knock once against the table leg; the sound feels louder than the surf outside. “Those aren’t my signatures,” I say. “And if you compare timestamps, you’ll see half of those shipments never existed.”

Callum laughs under his breath. “Doctor, you were busy saving lives, paperwork gets confusing.”

“Not when people die for it,” I shoot back. There was silence, even the cameras paused. They make me walk to the display screen, my folder’s too heavy; the edges curl with sweat. I plug in the flash drive anyway, On the monitor: supply logs, emails, requisition forms. I scroll fast, before courage evaporates. “These are requests I sent, AEDs, antivenom, EpiPens, they were approved on paper, never delivered.”

I switch slides, the next chart lists vendor payments, each one marked “paid” to a shell company buried under the Seraphine maintenance fund.

“Your point?” Callum interrupts.

“My point,” I say, “is that the same fund wired money to a private account ending in three-two-nine. Cross-check it with internal payroll.”

Someone from finance swallows hard, fingers fly over a laptop. A whisper travels down the table, the chairwoman lifts a brow. “Three-two-nine belongs to Valcrosse Holdings Subdivision B,” she reads slowly. “Operations oversight:Callum Valcrosse.”

Callum’s confidence cracks, just barely. “Those were routine fund shifts.”

“Routine doesn’t involve faking my name,” I say.

My voice shakes now, not from fear but fury. “You cut orders for cheaper substitutes and pocketed the difference. Then you blamed ‘budget strain’ when patients nearly died.” Gasps ripple, cameras click again, faster this time. Adrian’s chair creaks, he hasn’t moved except his hands, clasped so tight the knuckles bleach white.

“Dr. Quinn,” the chairwoman says, softer, “are you aware this testimony could implicate senior ownership?”

“Yes.”

“And you still stand by it?”

I look straight at Adrian, his eyes meet mine, ocean-dark, unreadable.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Because the truth doesn’t wait for permission.”

Callum recovers fast, “These accusations are absurd,” he says, laughing for the cameras like he’s humoring a child. “If there were irregularities, accounting would have caught them months ago.”

“Accounting did,” I say. “They just didn’t know whose hands the web led back to.”

I click again. The next slide shows email trails, small, unimportant on their own until you line them together. Requests rerouted, approvals edited, invoices changed by one signature line. All the metadata points to the same login ID.

“User: C.VALCROSSE,” I say.

The screen burns bright, broadcasting the truth louder than I ever could. Isabella freezes. The cameras stutter, the clicks sharp as rain on glass. Callum’s mouth opens, then shuts, until he lunges for the mic. “You don’t understand internal procedure..”

Adrian stands. “Sit down.”

The command cracks through the air, it’s the first sound he’s made all morning, and it stills everyone, even me. His voice is calm, but his jaw is stone. “You forged her name on medical orders, you signed your own audits and you endangered guests under my license.”

“Under our name,” Callum spits. “You think the board will spare you? You signed the quarterly reports too, cousin.” That word, cousin lands like a blade, the room ripples and every camera turns toward Adrian.

He doesn’t look away from Callum. “Then I’ll answer mine,” he says quietly. “But you’ll answer first.”

Callum shoves back from the table, two security staff step in. The flashbulbs go wild, his face half-lit, furious, trapped. He’s still yelling when they lead him out. “She’s just the pretty face that’ll ruin you, Adrian! You’ll see!” The door slams and the silence after is deafening.

The board calls a recess, reporters shout questions that blur into static. I stand there, folder limp in my hands, feeling like I’ve just cut out a vital organ to save the body. Adrian hasn’t moved, his mother leans close, whispering something that makes his shoulders lock tighter. When he finally looks up, his eyes find mine across the chaos.

It’s not anger, it’s something worse, hurt, raw and quiet. I want to go to him, to explain that I didn’t do this to destroy him, that the rot had to be cut out, but my legs won’t move. Ethan touches my elbow, gentle. “Press room’s outside, we can clear you through the back.”

“I’m fine,” I say, voice thin. “I need to stay.”

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“I owe him the truth,” I whisper.

Adrian steps away from the table, ignoring the cameras, for a heartbeat, it looks like he’s coming toward me, but Isabella stops him with a hand on his arm. He lets her, the image burns: her hand, his stillness, me outside that circle again. The chairwoman announces the session will resume in ten minutes to deliberate disciplinary measures.

I sink into the nearest seat, pulse still hammering. Asha slips in behind me, eyes wide. “You did it,” she breathes. “You actually did it.”

I manage a smile that feels like paper. “I think I just broke everything.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Sometimes you have to, to start over.”

Outside, the sea hammers the wall again, the whole island feels like it’s holding its breath. When they reconvene, the hall is half-emptied of noise, but tension fills every inch of it. The chairwoman’s voice is steady as she reads the conclusion. “Based on presented evidence, the board finds grounds for immediate termination of Mr. Callum Valcrosse from all operational duties and pending criminal investigation.”

Applause breaks somewhere in the back, short, nervous, quickly stifled. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel the weight of what follows.

“Further,” the chairwoman continues, “the board will review oversight failures extending to executive management.”

Her gaze flicks to Adrian, he stands before she can finish. “You don’t need to deliberate. I’ll step down.”

My heart drops. “Adrian..”

He doesn’t look at me. “Until the audit clears my name, Seraphine deserves leadership without a shadow.” His tone is even, but his hand trembles at his side. “This island will not burn for my bloodline’s mistakes.”

Isabella closes her eyes, a murmur ripples through the board.

“Effective immediately,” the chairwoman says, hesitant.

Reporters surge forward, shouting his name. Camera strobe but Adrian ignores them, turning only once, toward me. The look undoes me, the kind of tired acceptance, as if he’s been waiting his whole life for the moment love and duty finally chose opposite sides. I want to reach him, to say something, anything but security moves in, guiding him toward the side exit and he doesn’t resist.

The last thing I hear before the doors close is the sea outside, pounding against glass like it’s trying to get in, and for the first time since I came to this island, I can’t tell if I saved it or destroyed it.