Chapter 8: The Corrupt Doctor
Chapter 8: The Corrupt Doctor
The button on Ethan’s charcoal-gray blazer was actually a high-definition, wide-angle lens. Beneath the tailored wool, a whisper-thin wire ran down his side, connecting to a digital transmitter taped securely to his ribs.
"Audio is crystal clear," Marcus Vance's voice crackled through the tiny, flesh-toned earpiece hidden deep in Ethan’s right ear. Marcus was parked three blocks away in a nondescript utility van. "Remember, Ethan. Dr. Thorne is arrogant, but he's also paranoid. You have to feed his ego before you feed his greed. Make him feel like he is the smartest man in the room."
"Copy that," Ethan murmured, adjusting his cuffs as he stood on the sidewalk of the South Loop.
The clinic of Dr. Aris Thorne did not look like the den of a criminal mastermind. It was housed on the ground floor of a sleek, glass-paneled high-rise. The frosted glass doors bore the words Thorne Women's Wellness & Concierge Medicine in elegant, minimalist gold lettering. But Ethan, with his engineer's eye, noticed the subtle signs of decay. The gold lettering was peeling at the edges. The ferns in the waiting room were slightly browned, indicating a canceled landscaping service. The luxury was a facade, rapidly crumbling under financial strain.
Ethan pushed through the glass doors. He had assumed the identity of "Elias Montgomery," a supposedly desperate venture capitalist from Silicon Valley. Marcus had spent the last twelve hours backstopping the alias, creating fake LinkedIn profiles, a dummy corporate website, and offshore bank accounts.
After a brief, tense exchange with a sharply dressed but exhausted-looking receptionist, Ethan was escorted into Dr. Thorne’s private office.
Aris Thorne was a man who looked like he had been constructed entirely out of expensive, nervous energy. He wore a bespoke Italian suit under a crisp white lab coat, his silver hair perfectly coiffed. But his eyes were dark and hollow, darting around the room with the frantic speed of a man drowning in debt.
"Mr. Montgomery," Thorne said, standing up and extending a manicured hand. "A pleasure. Though I must admit, your assistant's request for an urgent, off-the-books consultation was highly unusual. My practice is strictly referrals only."
"I am aware," Ethan said, ignoring the handshake and taking a seat in the leather chair opposite the mahogany desk. He projected the cold, impatient aura of a man used to buying his way out of problems. "And I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a very specific, very lucrative problem that requires a doctor who understands... discretion."
Thorne slowly sat back down, steepling his fingers. "I am a physician, Mr. Montgomery. Not a fixer. What exactly is your problem?"
Ethan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "My grandfather recently passed away. He left behind a trust fund worth roughly eighty million dollars. However, he was an archaic, traditional man. The trust stipulates that the principal will only be released to an heir who has produced a legitimate child. I am unmarried, Doctor. And I am entirely sterile."
Thorne blinked, his professional facade slipping for a fraction of a second as the dollar amount registered in his brain. "I'm sorry to hear about your medical condition. But I'm not sure how I can—"
"I have a female companion," Ethan interrupted smoothly. "She is willing to wear a prosthetic. She is willing to play the part for nine months until we can arrange an 'international adoption' and claim the child is ours. What I lack, Dr. Thorne, is the medical paper trail. I need sonograms. I need blood test results. I need a licensed physician to swear on paper that this woman is carrying my biological child. The executors of the trust will verify the medical records."
Thorne swallowed hard. He looked toward the frosted glass of his office door, suddenly looking very sweaty. "Mr. Montgomery, what you are asking for is federal wire fraud. It is a complete violation of my medical oath. If I were caught, I would lose my license and face prison."
"Which is why I am prepared to offer you five hundred thousand dollars," Ethan said flatly, pulling a thick, black envelope from his jacket and tossing it onto the desk. "There is fifty thousand in bearer bonds in that envelope. A retainer. Non-traceable."
Thorne stared at the envelope. His clinic was two months behind on rent. His malpractice insurance premiums were choking him. Ethan watched the moral battle play out on the doctor's face, and it lasted exactly three seconds before greed won.
Thorne reached out and pulled the envelope toward him, though he didn't open it yet. "Hypothetically... if I were to assist you, the paperwork would have to be flawless. The timing of the ultrasounds, the HCG levels on the blood tests... it requires a masterclass in medical forgery."
"I know," Ethan said. "That's why I came to you. I heard you were the best."
Thorne frowned. "Heard from whom? I told you, I don't advertise these kinds of... bespoke services."
Ethan played his trump card. "I run in circles with men who have expensive secrets. I know a wealthy logistics CEO in the suburbs who recently found himself in a very messy situation with a woman named Vanessa. Or Valerie, depending on what she's calling herself these days."
Thorne’s face turned the color of wet cement. He froze completely.
"She bragged about you, Dr. Thorne," Ethan lied seamlessly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "She said your fake ultrasounds were absolute works of art. She said you coached her on all the symptoms, that you provided the prenatal prescriptions. She said you orchestrated a fake pregnancy so perfectly that she had a millionaire ready to sign away half his company."
Thorne’s breathing became shallow. "I... I don't know anyone by that name."
"Doctor, please," Ethan scoffed, letting out a condescending laugh. "I don't care about your side projects. I don't care that she paid you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars through a Cayman Islands shell company called V-Tech Consulting. I only care about competence. If you could build an illusion solid enough to fool an entire family and a corporate board of directors for six months, you can handle my trust fund executors. I just need to know you actually did the work, and she wasn't exaggerating."
The silence in the room was deafening. Thorne looked at the envelope of bearer bonds. He looked at Ethan's tailored suit. He was cornered by his own hubris.
"She was an amateur," Thorne finally sneered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The admission of guilt was completely, utterly recorded. "Valerie was sloppy. I had to forge six different sonograms because she kept messing up the timeline. I wrote the prescriptions, yes. I even sourced the silicone prosthetic for her from a theatrical contact in Los Angeles. She paid me a hundred and fifty grand, but frankly, dealing with her paranoia wasn't worth the headache."
"Got him," Marcus whispered in Ethan's ear. "Clear as a bell. You have the confession, Ethan. Get out of there."
Ethan smiled—a cold, terrifying smile. He stood up, buttoning his blazer perfectly over the hidden camera.
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"Thank you, Dr. Thorne," Ethan said. "That's exactly what I needed to hear. My people will be in touch."
Before Thorne could respond, Ethan turned and walked out of the office, leaving the fifty thousand dollars in counterfeit bearer bonds sitting on the mahogany desk. The trap had successfully snapped shut.
