Bloodlines and Brain Surgery Secrets
Language: en
“Miss Clarke, the car is waiting.” The black Rolls-Royce Ghost idled silently outside the hospital entrance. The chauffeur, clad in a suit and white gloves, gave me a small, deferential bow. I froze. Miss Clarke. My name is Dr. Samantha Clarke, and I am thirty-two years old. Since the day I was dropped off at the state-run orphanage at the age of eight, I hadn't heard that formal address from anyone associated with the Caldwells. Twenty-six years. Not a single phone call, not a letter, not a dime. And now, they send a Rolls-Royce? I didn't move. The chauffeur bowed again. “Grandmamma…