The door swung open slowly.

A shadow fell across the threshold.

It was Vanessa.

She wore a tailored gray coat, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight, flawless bun.

She held a leather folder against her chest.

“You look pale,” she said, her voice quiet.

She did not step all the way into the room.

She stood near the frame, looking at the blinking medical equipment.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

My voice sounded raw, scratched by the dry air of the ICU recovery wing.

“I came to ensure the transfer paperwork was fully processed,” she said.

“The babies are leaving tonight.”

“They are too weak,” I said.

“They need the incubators.”

Vanessa smiled slightly, a cold, practiced movement of her lips.

“The medical director signed off on it ten minutes ago,” she said.

“Their files show they are stable.”

She tapped the folder in her arms.

“Grant is waiting downstairs with the transport team.”

“You changed the records,” I said.

It was a guess, but the way her eyes darted to the dark television screen confirmed it.

“That is a serious accusation,” she said.