Part 1Don’t Cross the Rose

My daughter had been battling a debilitating illness for a decade. I, her mother, a leading biomedical pioneer, had finally spearheaded the team that developed the breakthrough drug to cure her.

On the very day the drug was set for its clinical trial, a notification pinged on my research lab’s monitor. It was a video from the hospital, showing the treatment underway. A wave of relief washed over me. Finally, my Lily would be the first to escape the clutches of this disease, to reclaim her health.

But as I clicked the video open, a cold dread began to coil in my gut. The girl receiving the experimental treatment on screen was not my daughter. Her chest bore the Global Innovation Medal, an honor I had personally designed and given to Lily. She wore the custom-designed princess gown, a lavish gift I’d commissioned for my sweet girl. But the face… it was a stranger’s.

A profound unease settled over me. I instinctively switched on the live news broadcast. There, on every channel, was the girl, wearing my medal, holding the hand of an unfamiliar woman. She beamed at the camera, announcing, “I want to thank this incredible drug developer, my mom!”

Inside that hospital room, amidst a chorus of praise for the imposter, my own daughter was huddled in a forgotten corner, draped in a flimsy, torn blanket. Then, a nurse brutally pulled her from view, dragging her by her matted hair.

I choked on a gasp, my world dissolving into a suffocating rage. How dare they treat my daughter like that? Did they truly believe she had no one watching over her, no one to fight for her?

I meticulously re-checked the experimental data. Yes, this batch of the synthesized drug was flawless, a triumph.

Just then, my assistant, Marcus, knocked on my office door. “Dr. Hayes,” he announced, “the hospital we’re partnering with sent a video of your daughter’s treatment.”

I immediately pushed aside my instruments, my heart thrumming with anticipation. I hadn’t been home in ages, consumed by this very research. Videos were my only window into Lily’s world.

But the moment I clicked play, something felt profoundly wrong.

The girl in the video was beautifully dressed, radiating a pretty, almost angelic charm. Around her neck hung the Global Innovation Medal—mine, a singular, unique achievement no one else in the world possessed.

Yet, the girl wearing my medal wasn't my daughter.

A deep sense of bewilderment grew. I called Mark, my husband.

“Sarah, honey, it’s amazing! Lily just got the new drug, and her vitals normalized instantly! Don’t you worry your head about a thing.”

“Your student, Chelsea, is here, taking full charge of Lily’s treatment. Don’t you trust her?”

“You just keep focusing on your groundbreaking research overseas, keep contributing to humanity! Lily just told me how grateful she is, said she wants to be just like you when she grows up!”

Mark’s voice was filled with such conviction, yet the gnawing unease persisted. I switched on the television, tuning into the national news. My drug was a world-class masterpiece; every channel seemed to be broadcasting the story.

The image that flashed on screen hit me like a physical blow. The “renowned pioneer” featured in the broadcast was Chelsea Greene, my very own student.

And there, in the corner of the hospital room, my Lily was being dragged out by her hair by a hospital staff member!

A wave of panic surged through me. I frantically dialed Lily’s attending physician, my voice trembling as I demanded to know how they dared to do such a thing.

“Hello, this is Lily Hayes’ mother…”

Before I could finish, Dr. Peterson, the attending physician, sighed heavily.

“Mrs. Hayes, I know what you’re going to say, but the hospital has to make money too. Stopping treatment was an unavoidable choice, unless you can pay the overdue medical bills.”

“You need to understand, Lily’s treatment has been in arrears for three years now. If it weren’t for Dr. Greene’s benevolence, considering you were under her tutelage, and her willingness to subsidize your daughter five hundred dollars a month, your daughter’s treatment would have been stopped three years ago.”

“So, that’s the situation. Either you pay up, or you wait for your daughter to succumb to her illness. The hospital genuinely can’t do anything more.”

Dr. Peterson hung up, leaving me utterly stunned.

Three years of overdue medical bills?

Under Dr. Greene’s tutelage?

The pieces clicked into place, chillingly, as I remembered Chelsea Greene’s face on the television. Because I had spent so long abroad, conducting research, maintaining a private profile, Chelsea Greene had audaciously taken my place, impersonating me.

And she had used the breakthrough drug I developed for my daughter, on her daughter!

My heart ached with pain, burning with a searing rage. All thoughts of my research vanished.

“Marcus! Book me the first flight home! I’m going back to the States, now!”