Chapter 137: Harrington
Mornings at the Rayne Clinic usually carried three distinct scents.
The first was disinfectant mixed with coffee—the everyday smell of the clinic itself.
The second was the faint sweetness of Max's cupcakes—the smell of ordinary happiness.
And the third was Helen's subtle perfume, which Ethan had learned could be used as a reliable indicator of her mood.
Today, however, the clinic had acquired a new scent.
Ethan couldn't quite describe it.
But it made him instinctively uncomfortable.
The bell at the front entrance chimed.
Helen looked up toward the monitor and smiled warmly.
"Good morning, ma'am. Welcome to Rayne Clinic. Do you have an appointment?"
The woman standing at the entrance removed her sunglasses, revealing pale-colored eyes.
She wore a camel-colored long coat with an extremely minimalist cut. Underneath was a white blouse and dark slacks.
Nothing about her appearance was flashy.
Yet somehow, she still carried the kind of presence that made people instinctively move aside.
"Yes," she said.
"With Dr. Rayne. Ten o'clock."
Her voice wasn't loud.
It was polite.
But it carried the unmistakable pressure of someone accustomed to negotiating across boardroom tables.
Helen glanced at the appointment schedule and paused slightly.
She personally handled all of Ethan's bookings.
Which meant she knew exactly where every patient came from.
And this particular name had a question mark marked beside it.
Helen unlocked the door and allowed the woman inside.
As the woman approached the desk, Helen studied her carefully, almost like she was evaluating the threat level of a stranger.
The woman placed a card on the counter.
Not a flashy black card.
Not metal.
Just an extremely simple white card.
No decorative design.
Only a single name:
Harrington.
Helen's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
But outwardly, she showed no reaction at all.
She simply slid the card back calmly.
"Miss Harrington, Dr. Rayne is currently with a patient. Please have a seat."
The woman nodded once.
"Of course."
Helen entered the examination room.
"Doctor," she said quietly, "Miss Harrington has arrived."
Ethan had been absentmindedly staring into space, still trying to mentally adjust to Monday morning.
He glanced instinctively at the clock.
9:55.
He nodded.
"Have her come in after five minutes. Thanks."
But Helen didn't leave immediately.
"She didn't come alone."
Ethan looked up.
"There are four people outside with her."
"Two men. Two women."
"They stayed outside the clinic."
"But I'm certain…"
"They aren't assistants."
Ethan instantly reached the correct conclusion:
Bodyguards.
And not temporary hired security either.
He didn't ask further questions.
Instead, he casually closed the medical file he hadn't actually been reading.
"Understood."
At exactly ten o'clock, the examination room door opened.
Miss Harrington walked in.
Her pace wasn't fast, but every movement carried absolute control and stability.
Even her posture looked effortless in the way only truly powerful people could manage.
The door closed behind her.
Now the room held only the two of them.
Ethan stood and offered his hand.
"Miss Harrington. Welcome."
She shook it lightly.
Her fingers were cool.
"Dr. Rayne," she said politely.
"Thank you for seeing me on time."
Ethan gestured toward the chair while naturally observing her complexion and breathing rhythm.
No visible shortness of breath.
Speech steady.
Breathing controlled.
But her lips were slightly pale, and her peripheral circulation seemed sluggish.
"Let's start with the basics."
"You brought your records?"
"Everything is here."
She placed a file folder on the desk.
Ethan opened the first page.
His expression quickly darkened.
Idiopathic pulmonary arterial hypertension.
BMPR2-related.
Diagnosed three years ago.
Elevated pulmonary vascular resistance and right-heart catheterization data, though still within the moderate range.
Right ventricular enlargement.
Preserved systolic function.
"You're on combination targeted therapy," Ethan said while looking up.
"Stable, but not improving."
"Yes."
She nodded without surprise.
Ethan stood.
"I'll need to perform another physical examination."
She agreed immediately without hesitation.
Auscultation.
Blood oxygen measurements.
Respiratory rhythm observation.
The moment the stethoscope touched her back, her shoulders tightened slightly.
Very subtle.
But Ethan noticed.
"Does this make you uncomfortable?" he asked.
"No."
She answered calmly.
"Just a conditioned response."
Ethan nodded.
After finishing the examination, he didn't immediately sit back down.
Instead, he remained standing and gave his conclusion directly.
"Your condition has entered the evaluation range for lung transplantation."
She nodded again.
"I know."
Ethan flipped through the documents.
"It says here you refused."
She straightened slightly in her chair.
"I didn't reject transplantation itself."
"I rejected treating it as the optimal solution at this stage."
Ethan looked at her carefully.
Her tone was calm.
Precise.
Emotionless.
She spoke less like a patient discussing her health—
and more like an executive evaluating strategic risk.
"What factors are influencing your decision?" Ethan asked.
"Immunosuppression," she answered immediately.
"Infection risk."
"Chronic rejection."
"Permanent reduction of functional mobility."
"If I accept transplantation, my life becomes a monitored, protected, restricted system."
"I understand its medical value."
"But I do not accept it as the correct choice right now."
Ethan didn't argue.
From a medical standpoint, everything she said was completely reasonable.
He sat back down and closed the file.
"How did you hear about Rayne Clinic?"
The question sounded casual.
But Miss Harrington didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she introduced herself properly.
"Eleanor Harrington."
"Board member of Harrington Aviation Holdings."
"During my father's tenure as chairman, I was personally assigned responsibility for the family's civil aviation leasing and defense logistics divisions."
She paused briefly.
"And Mr. Whitmore conducts business with my father."
In Ethan's mind, the connections assembled almost instantly.
Aviation.
Military.
Government contracts.
Whitmore.
"…I see."
"So both the government and the patients are feeding information your way."
She didn't deny it.
"Your existence isn't difficult to uncover."
"I know you treated Mr. Whitmore."
Ethan leaned back slightly.
"Sounds like your families are close."
"Close might be an exaggeration," she replied calmly.
"But families like ours have always shared information with one another."
She reached into her handbag and placed an envelope on the desk.
"I can pay the same consultation fee as Mr. Whitmore."
"One hundred thousand dollars."
Ethan didn't even glance at the envelope.
Eleanor continued calmly,
"Beyond that, the Harrington family can grant you one favor."
"At any time you require it."
She said it lightly.
But the weight behind those words was enormous.
Ethan looked up at her.
"Do all families like yours negotiate this way?"
"And you're willing to pay regardless of whether the treatment succeeds?"
Eleanor smiled faintly.
"It's not negotiation."
"It's an exchange."
"I'm not asking you to guarantee results."
"I'm only asking you to take my possibility seriously."
Ethan fell silent for a moment.
For some reason, he suddenly felt as though their positions had reversed.
As if he were the one seeking help.
"…Alright," he finally said.
"I can attempt a round of interventional treatment."
"No promises."
"No guarantees of miracles."
"We'll simply test whether your body is still capable of responding."
Eleanor nodded once.
"That's enough."
After a brief pause, Ethan added,
"If I can't help you, there's no need for payment."
The treatment began immediately that same morning.
Ethan never even considered conventional methods.
The woman's intentions were obvious.
Standing before her, he carefully restrained the intensity of the Holy Light, attempting a precise calibration.
Not "healing."
Intervention.
As the healing spell was slowly released, Eleanor's breathing rhythm began shifting almost imperceptibly.
Pulmonary vascular resistance loosened temporarily.
The burden on the right side of her heart gradually decreased.
On the monitor, the numbers showed a slight—
but steady—
drop.
The entire room remained silent.
Only the soft radiance of the Holy Light lingered within the clinic.
The data was changing.
Her body was responding.
Throughout the entire process, Eleanor never spoke.
She simply sat there, brows slightly furrowed, as though trying to confirm a sensation that shouldn't have existed.
A moment later, she subconsciously raised a hand to her chest.
Not because of pain.
Confusion.
The oppressive weight that had occupied her chest for years—
that indescribable pressure—
felt as though someone had quietly shifted it aside.
The treatment ended.
Ethan stepped back and lowered his hands.
The Holy Light faded away.
"You can stand up and see how you feel," he said.
Eleanor did as instructed.
The moment she straightened fully, her movement suddenly paused.
Not dizziness.
Not weakness.
It was something stranger.
An unfamiliar sense of emptiness.
She instinctively took a deep breath.
For the first time in years, the breath wasn't interrupted halfway through.
The air flowed smoothly into her lungs—
as though it had finally remembered where it was supposed to go.
She stood there frozen.
Several seconds later, she finally spoke in a low voice.
"…This is incredible."
She paused, searching for the right words.
"It's not just easier."
"It feels more like…"
"…space has opened inside my breathing."
By the time she finished that sentence, her voice was no longer perfectly steady.
For the first time since entering the clinic, emotion had finally broken through her composure.
Ethan glanced at the monitoring screen and nodded slightly.
"Your response was better than I expected."
He looked at her directly.
"That proves one thing."
"Your pulmonary vessels haven't completely locked down yet."
"So this can be cured."
The moment those final words landed—
Eleanor's breathing visibly faltered.
For the first time that day, she completely lost control of her emotions.
Slowly, she sat back down in the chair.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously, then loosened again.
She took a slow breath.
At that moment, she no longer looked like a composed executive negotiating terms.
She looked like an actual patient.
Before leaving the examination room, she personally handed the envelope to Ethan.
"Your fee," she said softly.
This time, it no longer sounded like a transaction.
Ethan accepted it without refusing.
At the doorway, Eleanor stopped and turned back toward him.
"Doctor."
Her voice lowered slightly.
The detached indifference she had maintained all morning seemed noticeably gentler now—almost humble.
"If you eventually determine that transplantation is still the only option…"
She paused briefly.
"…then please don't tell anyone else."
"Only tell me."
Ethan looked at her for a moment.
Then nodded.