6.Echos, Secrets and Ambitions.
Eva stood outside the nurses' station, flipping through the post-op notes for Ward 5B. Her hair was loosely braided to the side, stethoscope around her neck, pen tapping against the file. She was focused, but tired.
The day was dragging. Three cases, two ward rounds, and barely a coffee break.
"Walter."
She turned, surprised. Neil stood at the end of the corridor, glancing her way. He was in scrubs, hands folded behind his back-his usual intimidating calm.
"Yes, Dr. Morris?"
He walked toward her with steady steps. "Rounds. I'm reviewing Case 14's chart again. You're coming with me."
"Isn't that assigned to Lexi today?"
"I reassigned it," he said, looking over the clipboard in her hands. "You're the only one who flagged that dropped hemoglobin post-op yesterday."
Eva blinked. "Oh... right. I didn't think you noticed."
"I notice everything," he said flatly.
They walked side by side down the hallway, silence stretched between the sound of their shoes.
Inside the room, Neil reviewed the chart, gave a few sharp instructions to the nurse, then turned to Eva.
"You were right to order repeat labs," he said, eyes scanning her expression. "Saved us from missing a slow bleed."
Eva nodded, trying not to smile too hard. "Thank you, Dr. Morris."
He turned to leave, but then paused near the door.
"You haven't eaten."
She froze. "...What?"
Neil didn't look at her. "You've been on your feet since 6 a.m. Your chart notes are rushed. Your handwriting's worse than usual. That only happens when you skip meals."
Eva blinked. "You... remember my handwriting?"
He finally glanced at her, just briefly.
"You scribble hearts in your lowercase 'e's when you're half-awake."
A beat passed.
Eva's lips parted slightly, a faint laugh escaping before she could hold it in.
Neil turned away, cleared his throat. "There's food in the on-call room. I had Clara bring some. Eat it before rounds resume."
She stared after him, heart thudding strangely, softly.
That wasn't protocol. That was personal.
Eva smiled.
Neil parked his car in front of a small, quiet house tucked away on a narrow lane, far from the city noise—and far from the Morris name. The paint was chipped. The garden is overgrown. But it was peaceful. Hidden. Just like her.
It had taken him two months to find this place.
Two months, a few favors, and finally—Denver handing him an address with a grim look.
“Are you sure?” Denver had asked.
“I need to know,” Neil had replied.
Now, standing in front of the wooden door, Neil exhaled sharply before knocking.
A pause. Then the door creaked open.
Cynthia stood there, dressed in soft grey maxi, her hair tied back, face pale but calm. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
“Neil,” she breathed.
He didn’t smile. “It’s been a year.”
She nodded slowly. “Come in.”
The house was modest—nothing like the Morris estate. A worn-out sofa, a bookshelf filled with law books and wedding frames turned face-down. Neil glanced around.
“You really left everything behind.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she said quietly, setting down a cup of tea she was drinking before he arrived. “Your father made sure of that.”
“You could’ve come to me.”
She looked up, anger flashing. “And say what, Neil? That I failed your brother? That I was the only one fighting to prove his innocence while your father shut every door in my face?”
Neil's jaw tightened. “Then why is Callum still in jail?”
Cynthia stared at him, eyes hollow. “Because someone made sure he stayed there.”
He stepped closer. “Who?”
“I don’t know. But your father was scared. I saw it. He knew something. And instead of helping his son, he buried the whole thing.”
Neil’s eyes darkened. “And you just moved out. Disappeared.”
“I fought with him, Neil. I screamed at him for days. Told him I’d never forgive him. I left because staying there was killing me.”
He stared at her. “You could’ve told me or Ryle.”
Her voice broke. “And drag you both into something that could destroy your future too? I couldn’t do that to you. Or to Callum.”
Silence hung between them.
Then Neil said quietly, “You really loved him.”
Tears welled in Cynthia’s eyes. “I still do.”
Neil looked down. His hands were fists in his coat pockets.
“I’m going to find out what really happened that night,” he said. “And when I do, no one’s stopping me from bringing him back.”
Cynthia nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Be careful, Neil. This isn’t just about Callum anymore.”
He turned and walked away, the door creaking closed behind him.
Ryle lay sprawled on his bed, one arm draped over his forehead, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. His mind wasn’t on his thesis… or the law books gathering dust in the corner.
It was on her.
Ria Walter.
The way she looked at him today—like she already had him figured out and hated every part of it.
Sharp tongue, sharper eyes.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t cause a scene.
She let him stew in silence. That was worse.
Ryle groaned into his arm. “God, why did I even help Lara pull that stunt…”
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t proud of it. Not even close.
“I should apologise,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just—own it. Somehow.”
But before he could sink deeper into guilt, the sound of the front door echoed faintly.
Footsteps. Heavy. Intentional.
Denver, their loyal family aide, called out from the foyer.
“Ryle.”
“What?” Ryle shouted back.
Denver’s voice sounded different. Cautious.
“Your brother is here.”
Black coat. Distant eyes. Jaw locked.
Ryle stood frozen.
“…Neil?”
Neil didn’t stop.
Ryle stepped into the hallway, following. “Dude. You’re actually here?”
Even Denver looked stunned. It had been years. Neil had stopped staying at the mansion after their mother’s passing. The place was too haunted with memories. Too clean. Too empty.
“Neil,” Ryle repeated, catching up. “You okay?”
Neil’s voice was low, clipped. “I need answers.”
“About what?”
“About why Dad left Callum to rot in prison.”
Ryle stiffened. “Wait—you think he knew something?”
“I don’t think,” Neil said. “I know.”
He didn’t wait for Ryle’s reply. Just marched toward their father’s study—the same room their mother used to decorate with fresh roses every Sunday. Now, it smelled like silence and forgotten power.
Ryle didn’t follow right away. He stood there, watching his brother disappear down the hallway, a strange feeling twisting in his chest.
He hadn’t seen Neil like that since the day they lost their mom.
Morris Estate – Father’s Study
The door creaked open, the scent of old books and aged whiskey hitting Neil like déjà vu. The study hadn’t changed—same mahogany desk, same antique clock ticking like a slow countdown, same portrait of his father above the fireplace.
And sitting beneath it—Mr. Elias Morris, head of the Morris empire, still as commanding as ever in a tailored grey suit.
He didn’t even look up when Neil stepped inside.
“I wondered when you’d show up,” Elias said, pouring himself a drink. “Scotch?”
“I’m not here for pleasantries,” Neil replied.
Elias swirled the glass and finally looked up. “You never are.”
Neil stood tall. Cold. Controlled.
“Why is Callum still in jail?”
Elias took a slow sip, gaze sharp. “I assume Cynthia fed you a sob story.”
Neil’s voice dropped. “Don’t shift blame. We had the power to get him out. You didn’t even try.”
“Because it wasn’t that simple.”
“Then explain it to me.”
A pause. Elias set his drink down carefully, deliberately.
“There are things in this family you’ve been shielded from, Neil.”
“I don’t want protection,” he snapped. “I want the truth.”
Elias leaned back. “Truth?” His voice grew darker. “The truth is—Callum made a choice. He got involved with people he shouldn't have. And when things fell apart, someone had to take the fall.”
Neil’s hands clenched. “You let your son take the fall.”
“I protected this family name,” Elias bit out. “You think I didn’t want to save him? You think I didn’t try? I gave him a choice. Take the silence or burn everything down. He chose silence.”
“He was scared,” Neil growled. “And you turned your back.”
Elias stood now too. “No. I did what I had to do. Just like you’ll have to when it’s your turn to lead.”
Neil stared at him, disgust curling in his gut.
“If this is leadership,” he said coldly, “then I want no part of it.”
He turned to leave.
Elias called after him. “You’re not walking away from this, Neil.”
Neil stopped at the door.
“I already did. The day Mom died.”
He shut the door behind him with a quiet, final thud.
Eva Ria’s Home– Late Evening
The room was , slightly messy, and smelled faintly of cocoa, hairspray, and jasmine candles.
Ria sat on the floor in mismatched socks, sketchpad balanced on her knees, while Eva lounged on the couch wearing a watermelon-printed oversized tee and a banana face mask she’d forgotten to wash off.
“Okay, hear me out,” Ria said, waving her pencil like a wand. “National Design Showcase. Final round. My theme? Rebirth. I’m thinking flowy silhouettes, reds, blacks, maybe some dramatic entrance where the model walks through fog—boom, healing trauma with couture.”
Eva blinked. “That’s… intense.”
“It’s fashion therapy,” Ria said proudly. “Slap it on a runway, baby.”
Eva sipped her chamomile tea, already half asleep. “So basically you're planning a dramatic comeback that ends in tears, glitter, and a slow clap?”
Ria gasped. “You get me!”
“Unfortunately.”
They both burst out laughing.
Ria flipped the sketchpad around to show Eva. “See this gown? I want it to say: ‘I’ve been through hell, but now I wear fire as eyeliner.’”
Eva stared. “I’d give up my residency just to wear that.”
“No need,” Ria said with a wink. “You’re already glowing like you caught feelings.”
Eva choked. “Excuse me?”
Ria raised a brow, all smug and knowing. “Dr. Neil ‘Emotionally Constipated’ Morris. Don’t act innocent.”
“I don’t—he’s just…” Eva flailed. “He told me to eat.”
Ria fake gasped. “No. He cared about your nutrition? Strange isn't it!”
After their glitter-and-gown giggles, the living room had quieted down just a little. Ria was now lying flat on the floor like a dead fish, pencil stuck behind her ear. Eva sat cross-legged on the couch, picking at a leftover cookie like it was her last will to live.
Then Eva said casually, “So... something kind of crazy happened at the hospital today.”
Ria perked up, rolling to her side. “Do tell, Dr. Gossip.”
Eva tried to sound calm—casual even. But her tone betrayed a glimmer of excitement. “There was this post-op patient—low hemoglobin, sudden drop. Everyone thought it was stable but... I caught the signs early. Ordered a few tests, flagged it, and—turns out it was a slow internal bleed.”
Ria sat up slowly. “Wait. You figured that out?”
Eva shrugged, her smile too shy to be a flex but too bright to hide. “I mean, yeah. Neil... uh, Dr. Morris even reassigned the case to me today.”
Ria blinked. Then blinked again.
And then, without warning, she stood and dramatically pointed a finger at Eva like she was in the final round of America’s Got Talent.
“You will be the best doctor, Eva Walter.”
Eva laughed, red in the face. “Stop, I swear you are bragging—”
“No. I’m saying it with my full chest,” Ria said proudly. “One day, when they write medical textbooks, they’re gonna have a whole chapter titled: ‘Saving Lives, Serving Looks – The Eva Walter Story.’”
Eva took over from there standing on the couch with a small smirk on her face grabbing the remote from Ria's hand, which they are assuming as a mic now.
“And my lil one will be the best designer,” Eva grinned, pointing her spoon at Ria like it was a magic wand. “Hosting her own fashion weeks, running a global empire, terrifying assistants with glitter bombs and last-minute changes.”
She tapped her chin dramatically. “What should we name your brand… hmm... Ria’s? Just that. No frills. Like Madonna, Beyonce but with better fabric choices.”
Ria gasped. “Stop. That actually slaps.”
“Right? Picture this—Ria’s. Walk in, get stunned. No refunds for emotional damage caused by fabulousness.”
Ria nearly choked on her marshmallow. “I hate how good that sounds.”
Eva leaned in with a mock-serious expression. “We’ll make slogans like, ‘Ria’s: stitching insecurities into slay,’ or ‘Designed for drama. Worn by legends.’”
“Eva, if you ever quit medicine, I swear—brand manager,” Ria said, wiping her eyes from laughing too hard.
They both broke into a giggle fit again, collapsing into each other on the couch, limbs tangled and hearts lighter.
They paused for a moment, both grinning like idiots.
Then Ria leaned back dramatically on the rug. “You know what I want?”
“An actual closet?”
“A studio,” she said dreamily. “Big windows. Plants I’ll probably kill. Sewing machines that don’t overheat. And one of those mood boards where I stick quotes like ‘burn them with your brilliance.’”
Eva smiled. “You’ll have it.”
“You think?”
“I know,” Eva said firmly. “You’re unstoppable. And mildly scary.”
Ria smirked. “Weird way to say ‘iconic,’ but I’ll take it.”
They clinked mugs in a toast to dreams, sisters, and banana face masks.
And for that night, in their tiny happy home filled with uneven curtains and ambition, the Walter sisters and to the dreams stitched in chaos, and hearts that never stop trying.