Dangerous Delivery

Phoebe's POV

Moments later, I slipped my black helmet on and hopped onto the sleek black motorcycle sitting in the Hale driveway. The engine roared to life as I kicked off, already humming under my breath—time to get this delivery done.

——

Atticus and Patty finally crept outside once Phoebe disappeared from view. They unleashed a string of curses, but their anger was pointless now. She was long gone.

——

Phoebe's POV

My phone buzzed while I cruised down the street—Harold's file coming through. I tapped it open and nearly hit the brakes when his photo loaded.

Damn. The guy was stunning. Tall frame, shoulders that could fill a doorway, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Gold-rimmed glasses framed his eyes, but they couldn't hide the intensity lurking beneath. His mouth was set in a hard line—the kind of expression that screamed power and control.

I let out a low whistle. "Now we're talking," I murmured.

He looked dangerous in all the right ways. Cold, commanding—exactly what got my blood pumping.

Any doubts I'd had about taking this job evaporated the second I saw that face. I grinned, cranked the throttle, and shot forward.

Later, I rolled up to a sprawling mansion and brought my bike to a smooth stop beside a gleaming black SUV. My ride looked beat to hell next to it—scratched paint, worn leather—but I couldn't care less.

The moment I killed the engine, a tall figure in an expensive suit approached, flanked by a crew of bodyguards.

I pulled off my helmet and sized up Harold as he closed the distance. Christ, the photos didn't do him justice.

Staying seated with one boot planted on the ground, I met his stare head-on. "Harold?"

He seemed caught off guard that his courier was female, but he nodded curtly. "The medicine?"

I fished a small plastic baggie from my jacket and dangled it between two fingers. "The cash?"

The bag looked sketchy as hell—just two tiny black pills rattling around inside cheap plastic. Nothing impressive about it.

Harold's gaze dropped to my wrist, where a simple black hair tie caught his attention. Something about my casual confidence seemed to throw him off balance.

After several beats of silent assessment, something cold flickered behind those designer frames. He suddenly switched tactics. Instead of making the trade, he pulled out his phone and transferred half the payment. "Come with me. The rest gets paid after testing."

I glanced at his muscle, then back at him. The setup felt sketchy, but I wasn't about to back down.

After a brief pause, I tucked the pills away, swung off the bike, and followed him inside, hands buried in my jacket pockets.

The Bailey estate screamed old money and older power—the kind of family that'd been running Clearwater since before my grandparents were born. The mansion looked like something out of a history book, all grand architecture and intimidating presence. Multiple courtyards stretched out before us, but only one blazed with light. A cluster of worried-looking people had gathered near the entrance.

In families like this, genuine concern and calculated performance were impossible to tell apart.

When Harold walked in with me trailing behind, every conversation died. All eyes locked onto me—curious, suspicious, judgmental.

Most people would've wilted under that kind of scrutiny, surrounded by politicians and business moguls.

I just strolled into that courtyard like I owned it, matching Harold's pace step for step.

With Mitchell dying, the Bailey family was staring down a vicious power struggle. Bringing an outsider into the mix right now had everyone on edge.

But Harold's reputation for ruthless efficiency kept mouths shut. Nobody dared question him directly—they just followed us deeper into the estate.

Mitchell had served alongside President Yule back in the day. When health forced his retirement, the government had assigned their best military doctors to his care.

Those same doctors now stood around Mitchell's bed looking completely defeated. He'd slipped into another coma without warning—no symptoms, no signs.

His latest one, and each lasted longer than the previous. This time, he'd been under far longer than anyone considered safe. His vitals kept dropping. They'd almost called time of death twice already.

Word had leaked, and suddenly Bailey family members swarmed the house, dragging lawyers behind them and stirring up chaos. They'd crowded around Mitchell's bed like vultures, each one acting like they had final say.

Harold had finally lost his temper and sworn he'd found experimental treatment to get them out of the room.

So when he walked in now with me beside him, the medical team looked anxious. "Did you locate the medication?" one asked.

Harold stayed quiet and looked my way.

I held up the plastic bag without hesitation. The two black pills inside made a soft rattling sound as I passed it over.

The doctors stared at it like I'd handed them street drugs. The packaging looked cheap, and the contents didn't inspire confidence.

"Miss, has this undergone clinical testing?" one doctor asked nervously, refusing to take the bag. "What are the adverse effects? The active ingredients?"

"No trials," I said bluntly. "Side effect is sleepiness. Ingredients are need-to-know."

The doctors looked skeptical as hell. I ignored them and turned back to Harold. "You ordered one pill. I brought backup. Test it if you want—I'll give you some time.

"But I'm telling you now—these work. Combine them with acupuncture, and your grandfather wakes up soon.

"And you're running out of time. At his current rate, he's got very little time left. Better make your choice fast."

Before Harold or the medical team could respond, someone laughed mockingly behind us.

"What a joke. The country's top military doctors are stumped, and some random girl waltzes in claiming she has all the answers?"

"Harold, where did you even dig her up? Experimental drugs are dangerous enough. If something goes wrong—"

"Exactly. Mitchell's survived worse before. Let's stick with proven methods instead of gambling now."

"She's just a child. What could she possibly know about Mitchell's condition? Giving him very little time to live—please."

"And acupuncture? What kind of ancient nonsense is that? Isn't that Buck's specialty anyway? If he's not here, what's the point?"

As the murmuring continued, Harold slowly turned to face the crowd. His voice stayed level but carried unmistakable authority. "If you don't want to get thrown out again, shut your mouths."

Silence fell instantly. Then Harold turned back to me, his stare boring into mine. "You practice traditional medicine?" The question sounded more like a quiet command. His tone was ice-cold and impossible to argue with.

Something about that look made my skin prickle. I'd seen it before somewhere, though I couldn't place when or where. "Some," I replied.

Against All Odds

Phoebe's POV

I straightened up and locked eyes with Harold. "So what's it gonna be? You in or not? I've got other places to be."

His eyes narrowed as he weighed his options. "How certain are you about this?"

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and glanced down at Mitchell's still form. "One pill, some needle work, and he'll be conscious within the hour. Keep up the treatment twice daily, and he'll be walking around in a week."

The words rolled off my tongue with complete certainty—no hesitation, no doubt.

Mitchell had been deteriorating for years. Every renowned physician in Coralia had taken their shot and failed miserably. The best they could manage was slowing his decline.

Unless someone could miraculously locate the elusive Buck, Mitchell's time was running out fast.

But Buck had practically disappeared from existence. Harold had already blown through millions trying to track him down—all for nothing.

Some people figured Buck was dead. Word was his only apprentice had stepped up to fill the void, but that person was even more impossible to find.

Only a select few had ever laid eyes on Buck's student. Nobody even knew if they were dealing with a man or woman.

That's why, with Mitchell sliding into yet another coma, Harold had been forced to gamble on sketchy experimental drugs from the Dark Net.

They could keep burning cash searching for Buck, but Mitchell couldn't afford to wait.

Harold's expression shifted. The initial curiosity was still there, but now it carried a edge of doubt and suspicion. "Awake in an hour? Completely healed in a week?"

Before I could respond, several Bailey family members erupted in laughter. "Do you have any clue where you are, Miss?" one of them sneered. "This isn't some back-alley clinic where you can spout whatever nonsense you want."

"Right, awake in an hour, cured in a week—who exactly are you trying to con?" another one added.

"Even Coralia's top specialists wouldn't dare make those claims. Someone escort this joke out of here," a third voice called out.

More voices piled on. They sized me up from head to toe, already writing me off as a nobody. They'd caught wind that I'd rolled up on some beaten-down motorcycle to make a delivery. My entire outfit probably cost less than one of their designer belts.

They hadn't bothered digging into who I actually was.

To them, I was just another bold girl chasing after Harold.

And in their minds, Harold would never settle for someone like me. Honestly, they probably thought they were being charitable by not having security drag me out.

The doctors didn't show the same open disdain as the Bailey relatives, but they tried reasoning with me. "Young lady, this isn't the place for reckless gambles," one warned.

"Exactly," another chimed in. "Forget about those pills—we can't even verify if they're safe. And acupuncture? You're too young to even be licensed, aren't you?"

"Mitchell isn't some test subject for your experiments. Just walk away now," someone else urged.

I didn't flinch. No panic, no defensive reactions. I didn't even spare a glance for the people tearing me apart. My attention stayed fixed on Harold—like his opinion was the only one that counted.

And Harold picked up on that. Most people would've folded under that kind of pressure by now, but I remained steady, completely unbothered by the chaos surrounding me. That alone was enough to catch his interest.

He lifted his hand, and the room fell silent immediately. Everyone expected him to show me the door.

Instead, he looked directly at me and said, "If you can get my grandfather conscious within an hour, I'll personally come thank you. What's your name?"

"Phoebe Hale," I answered smoothly.

Harold didn't fully buy the "completely healed in a week" promise, but he seemed to believe I could wake Mitchell up in an hour. That earned him some points with me.

"Harold, how can you gamble with your grandfather's life like this?" someone from the crowd shouted angrily. "I won't stand for it."

"Neither will I," another voice joined in. "Mitchell's condition is too critical. We can't just let anyone experiment on him."

Harold fixed them with an icy stare. "Since when do any of you call the shots for the Bailey family?"

That shut them up real quick.

I raised an eyebrow, getting a clearer read on the situation—Harold held serious power here.

Ignoring the hostile faces around me, I followed Harold to Mitchell's bedside.

I pulled out a small black pouch, unrolled it, and spread out my acupuncture needles. After sterilizing everything quickly, I got down to business.

My hands moved with practiced speed and precision as I positioned eight needles exactly where they needed to go. The crowd watched in stunned silence. I didn't just know acupuncture—I was clearly a master at it.

It was too late for those Bailey relatives to interfere now, so someone started timing me, eager to watch me fail when the hour passed with no results. They wanted to see Harold embarrassed.

I knew exactly what game they were playing, but I couldn't care less. Truth be told, the only reason I'd agreed to help was because Harold was easy on the eyes—and of course, out of respect for Mitchell.

After placing the needles, I took out the pill and asked Harold for water. I crushed and dissolved the medication, then carefully administered it to Mitchell. Then I dropped into a chair and pulled out my phone.

Didn't you mention having an old friend in Coralia? What was their name again? I texted.

A few minutes later, the response came through: [Mitchell Bailey, but it's been years since we last spoke.]

I read it and casually typed back: [Got it.]

Inside the room, an expectant quiet settled over us, but outside, people were getting restless. They didn't know the details of what was happening, but seeing me treat Mitchell had sent them into a frenzy.

They wanted to storm in and stop me, but Harold's right-hand man, Alistair, stood guard at the door.

All they could do was simmer in their own anxiety.

——

When Mitchell's eldest son, Declan, and his wife Rosalyn finally emerged from the room, the crowd descended on them immediately. "What's happening in there?" someone demanded. "Why is someone doing acupuncture on Mitchell?"

As the oldest, Declan had once been positioned to inherit leadership of the Bailey family—until Mitchell decided to pass control to his youngest son's branch instead. Since then, Declan had been at war with Harold and that side of the family.

So now, he didn't hold back his criticism. "Harold's completely lost his mind. He's letting some random girl take charge of Mitchell's treatment."

Rosalyn added dramatically, "She actually had the nerve to claim Mitchell would wake up in an hour and be completely cured within a week!"

"What?" someone gasped. "They're actually gambling with Mitchell's life?"

"This girl has to be running some kind of scam," another person said. "We need to call the authorities and get her removed before something terrible happens!"

A Brief Miracle

Phoebe's POV

The sharpest complaints came from some well-dressed middle-aged guy who obviously carried weight in the Bailey family. The moment he opened his mouth, everyone else jumped on the bandwagon, pushing against Alistair at the door, desperate to get in.

I might have seemed totally absorbed in my phone game, but I caught every bit of the chaos outside.

The racket was driving me crazy. I paused my game, checked on Mitchell, and saw his face had better color now. The acupuncture was working.

Even the military doctors who'd been skeptical at first had shut up. They didn't want to get dragged into this mess.

Everyone understood Mitchell's body was failing, and his age made things worse. Most people could only hope to buy him a little more time.

I watched the crowd's reaction and whispered to Harold, "Too much noise. He needs quiet."

Harold wasn't exactly known for his patience, and the only thing keeping him from losing it was his worry about his grandfather.

He didn't understand medicine, but after dealing with Mitchell's condition for so long, even he could see the treatment was helping.

So when I spoke up, he nodded at Alistair.

Alistair moved fast—cleared the room and herded everyone back to the courtyard. Finally, some peace.

The time would pass quickly, but I had zero interest in awkward staring contests with the others. I kept my head down, focused on my game instead.

The upbeat game music and occasional sound effects helped me stay relaxed. I sank into the chair, completely at ease.

Harold kept watching me. In all his years, he'd apparently never encountered anyone—especially not a teenage girl—who stayed this cool and unbothered around him. It only made him more curious about who I really was.

I felt his intense gaze but didn't react.

I always kept work and personal life separate. Sure, I'd shown up partly because Harold was gorgeous, but now that I knew Mitchell had history with Buck, this was serious business.

After all, Buck barely called anyone a friend. I knew I had to give this everything, or Buck would never let me live it down.

After a while, I closed my game and moved to Mitchell. I checked his pulse, studied his face, and nodded before removing the needles.

Then I glanced at my watch. "It's working," I announced. "He should wake up soon."

Honestly, the results exceeded my expectations. At this pace, Mitchell might even wake up sooner.

Harold stayed quiet, but his expression shifted. His eyes brightened—this was the best news he'd heard all day.

Outside the door, the Bailey family had been waiting and eavesdropping. When they heard my prediction, they started snickering again, still convinced I was a fraud.

They couldn't wait for Harold to throw me out. They were sure I'd embarrassed myself completely.

The doctors looked uncomfortable. It was their first time just standing around doing nothing while Mitchell was unconscious.

Soon enough, the people outside couldn't contain themselves—they pushed past Alistair and burst in.

When Rosalyn saw Mitchell still lying there with his eyes closed, she thought she had her moment. She snapped with smug satisfaction, "Harold, it's been long enough, and he's still unconscious. What now? Ready to admit this girl's a con artist and let us call the police?"

She acted like she held the moral authority, but after Alistair had ejected her earlier, she didn't actually dare touch me.

The entire room went tense. Everyone stared at me.

But I didn't even blink. I tapped my phone one final time, finished my game by defeating the last enemy. Then I calmly slipped it into my pocket, stood up, met Harold's eyes, and said, "What's the hurry? He's already waking up."

The doctors were positioned closest to the bed. They immediately looked at Mitchell, and right on cue, his eyelids began to flutter before slowly opening.

He still seemed slightly confused, his aged eyes stiff and unfocused, but he was definitely conscious, exactly as I'd predicted.

Harold rushed over, leaned down, and said gently, "Grandpa, you're awake."

Mitchell's eyes shifted slightly. He managed a weak nod and made a soft sound.

The room fell into shocked silence. Everyone froze.

This girl—me, without even a medical license—had accomplished what the finest military doctors in all of Coralia couldn't.

Harold finally exhaled with relief. "Miss Hale, thank you. I really mean that."

I stayed as relaxed as always. My expression remained neutral as I stood there and said casually, "No problem. But just because he's conscious doesn't mean he's recovered. The pill will only work for about a month. Without regular acupuncture sessions, he'll slip back into another coma."

Then I looked at Harold, my eyes cool and sharp with a touch of mischief. "So yeah, you should find a doctor who practices acupuncture. Fast."

Of course, I was being slightly theatrical on purpose—just to keep them guessing.

Harold gave a subtle, polished smile. "Miss Hale, didn't you mention you could completely heal my grandfather within a week? Would you consider staying to continue the treatment?"

I glanced at the speechless Bailey family, then offered a dry, sardonic smile. "Me? Aren't I just some suspicious girl with no credentials and a questionable background? You people should look for someone more legitimate. Maybe even try finding Buck."

If Buck ever discovered his old friend had been ill this long, he'd definitely appear in Clearwater and cause chaos.

Harold shot an icy look at the Bailey relatives. One by one, they ducked their heads, too intimidated to speak.

Harold's fury subsided slightly. He turned back to me. "Miss Hale, please stay and treat my grandfather. I'll add another 3 million dollars to your fee. And consider this a personal favor—I owe you one. If you ever need anything, just ask."

I guessed Harold would continue searching for Buck, but it was obvious he knew Mitchell's condition couldn't wait. Judging by his expression, he had decided I was his best option, and he wasn't about to let me walk away.