At We Care Private Hospital.
Meanwhile, some of the onlookers started to take selfies with the two women in the background—complete with crying emojis, RIP stickers, and captions like "RIP to the broke heiress 😭🕊️."
The receptionist leaned over the counter with a sweet smile.
"If you want, honey," she said, "we could just send your nanny to one of the charity hospitals. You can't afford anything else anyway."
Some of the surrounding people snickered.
Others stared at the unfolding scene intently, wondering why the hell those people were being so unnecessarily rude.
Selene coldly glared at the receptionist, calmly took her phone, and dialed a number.
It connected instantly. No ring. No waiting time.
"Miss Sinclair," the voice on the other end greeted her, crisp and respectful. "How can I help you?"
"Blake," Selene said sternly. "The Hamilton Group's hospital is refusing to treat my nanny. Fix this."
She hung up before he could reply.
The dean cackled. "Yeah, sure, princess. Call your sugar daddy. Maybe he can buy this hospital!"
The receptionist wiped a fake tear.
"So tragic," she said smugly. "The 'heiress' used to have it all, but now all she has are delusions."
Selene stared at them like she was looking at a particularly dumb zoo exhibit.
And waited.
Ten seconds later, her phone buzzed.
Blake had sent a thumbs-up emoji.
She glanced at the message. Her mouth tilted into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was too new, too sharp for that.
Then, Selene looked at the man before her.
"Dean Moore," she said slowly, "Check your inbox."
Dean snorted. "What, you sent me a resume? Looking for a janitor job?"
He whipped out his phone with theatrical flair—thumbs fumbling—still wearing that smug, punchable grin.
It lasted about three seconds.
Then it shattered.
The grin fell off his face so fast it practically bounced off the floor.
Color drained from his cheeks until he resembled a half-melted vanilla popsicle.
The email he had received was short. Brutal.
URGENT NOTICE
Effective immediately, We Care Hospital, which falls under the full ownership of Hamilton Group Holdings, will have a new acting supervisor. Miss Selene Sinclair.
New employment status for all current staff: Pending review.
Immediate compliance is mandatory.
Dean just stared for ten silent seconds.
He blinked at his phone like it had personally insulted his bloodline.
He shook it.
Squinted.
Laughed—a high-pitched, nervous sound like a dying hyena.
"This... This is fake news!" he barked. "She's bluffing! H-Hamilton Group would never—!"
Right then, his phone rang.
A name flashed across the screen: Director Wallace – We Care Hospital.
Dean turned paler than skim milk. His sausage fingers jabbed at the answer button.
"Hello, Director Wallace, sir! Haha, you won't believe this little misunderstanding—!"
His face twisted like a toddler caught stealing candy.
Whatever the voice on the other end was saying made Dean's knees wobble like overcooked noodles.
"N-no… that can't be…"
"We—we're the Sinclairs' people— We—!"
The entire lobby held its breath.
And then Dean Moore—Administrator of We Care Hospital, a man who once claimed he wrestled sharks on vacation—fainted like a Victorian maiden whose corset was laced too tight.
The receptionist screamed and lunged after him—but tripped over her own heels and faceplanted onto the floor with a wet splap.
The crowd erupted.
Someone actually yelled, "Call the ambulance!"
Nurses scrambled.
Orderlies panicked.
One brave janitor started crossing himself.
Selene, meanwhile, calmly adjusted her bloodstained sleeve, radiating serene menace.
She strolled forward like she was casually browsing produce at a grocery store, then stopped in front of the nearest doctor and looked him dead in the eyes.
"I own this place now," she said, calm and razor-sharp. "As in—I could turn this building into a haunted house and make all of you dress up as rotting corpses. But I don't have time for that. Just get my nanny a check-up, and we'll be good."
The staff launched into action.
Some cast glances of pity at Dean twitching on the floor.
Someone wheeled out a chair for Mariah.
But nobody—absolutely no one—dared get near the man who'd insulted Selene just five minutes ago.
In less than a minute, Mariah was whisked away to the VIP wing as if she were foreign royalty.
The receptionist, now smeared with lip gloss and regret, scrambled upright, then dropped to her knees in front of Selene.
"Miss Sinclair!" she wailed, clutching Selene's ankle. "Mercy! I have seven cats and a credit score of four hundred!"
Selene smiled like a fox admiring a henhouse.
"You're not fired," she said sweetly.
The receptionist gasped in relief.
"You're promoted," Selene added.
The girl blinked.
"Congratulations. You're the hospital mascot now. You'll wear a glittery syringe costume every Sunday. Rain or shine."
The girl made a sound like a dying hamster but nodded violently.
Selene turned her gaze to Dean, who was now trying to discreetly army-crawl toward the emergency exit.
"And you," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "you'll join her as mascot."
Dean froze, looking like a man who'd just seen his GPA resurrected and publicly executed.
Right then, a trembling young doctor stumbled forward.
"Miss Sinclair! We've successfully admitted your patient to our best ward and, um, strongly advised the staff to treat her like the president!"
Selene pulled her most serious expression and stared the doctor dead in the eye, "Good. Because if she sneezes wrong, you'll be next in line for glitter duty."
The doctor nodded so fast he gave himself a headache and bolted away.
Selene let out a small, tired sigh.
So much had happened in such a short time.
Meanwhile, the nurses were sneaking glances at her, the orderlies were gossiping, and the security guards were quietly texting job applications to rival hospitals.
Selene just tried to think about the kittens when an annoying sound entered her mind.
Ding!
[Warning: Incoming chaos approaching at high speed.]
Selene blinked.
Outside, beyond the glass doors, police cars swarmed into the lot like angry hornets. Sirens screamed. Tires screeched. Radios barked.
Officers poured out like ants from a kicked nest.
Guns twitching. Boots stomping.
Selene instinctively stepped back. Her heart thudded once—hard.
Every exit was now blocked by forty-six armed men and women with no patience and even less humor.
For a single, frozen moment, Selene stood there—bloodstained, tired, and perfectly still—as a tidal wave of law enforcement surged toward her.
Then she whispered, deadpan:
"Well… shit."
Ding!
[New Quest Unlocked: "Survive Without Looking Pathetic."]