The next five years were not measured in days, but in milliliters, heartbeats, and late-night study sessions.
Lulan Lascourine no longer remembered what it felt like to be a "middle-class girl." That version of her had been buried under piles of medical journals and the heavy weight of the General's expectations. She had moved from the kitchen to the operating theater, traded her apron for a sterile white coat, and swapped her tears for the cold, calculated precision of a woman who had a world to conquer.
The Prodigy of Zurich
The General had kept his word. He had used his vast influence to secure Lulan a place at the world's most elite medical university in Zurich. But he didn't pay for her grades. Lulan earned those with a ferocity that terrified her classmates.
She was the woman who lived on three hours of sleep. She was the woman who would stand in a surgery observation deck for twelve hours straight without flinching. Her professors called her "The Ice Queen," but she didn't care. She had four mouths to feed and a legacy to protect.
In her small, high-security apartment near the university, life was a chaotic symphony. Lucian was always the one organizing his siblings' toys into perfect rows. Kael had figured out how to bypass the child-locks on the tablets before he was three. Bastian was the sunlight of the home, always laughing, while little Elara sat by the window, watching the birds with a quiet, unnerving focus.
Every weekend, the General would fly them back to Cordova on his private jet. He was no longer just a cold soldier; he was "Grandpa Julian." He would sit in his library with a child on each knee, telling them stories of strategy and honor, while Lulan practiced her suturing techniques on silicone pads next to him.
The General's Final Order
It happened on a Tuesday. The call came while Lulan was in the middle of a complex neurosurgery simulation.
"The General has collapsed," the voice on the other end said.
Lulan didn't scream. She didn't cry. She calmly finished the simulation, sterilized her hands, and was on a plane within the hour.
When she arrived at the Lascourine Estate, the air felt different. The iron-grey fortress felt cold, as if the soul was leaking out of the stone. She found Julian in his massive oak-paneled bedroom. He looked smaller than she remembered, his skin the color of parchment.
"Don't look at me with those doctor eyes, Lulan," he rasped, a ghost of his old smirk on his lips. "I've seen enough battlefields to know when the retreat has started."
Lulan sat by his bed, taking his weathered hand in hers. "I can fix this, Father. I've been studying the new cardiac protocols-"
"No," Julian interrupted, his grip surprisingly strong. "You have a different surgery to perform. A surgery on the world. My heart is tired, but yours is just beginning to burn."
He signaled for his lawyer to step forward. "Everything is done. The fortune, the hospitals in Cordova, the secret accounts in Switzerland... it all goes to you and the children. But there is one thing I saved for last."
He handed her a black leather portfolio. Inside was a file stamped with the Royal Seal of Belgravia.
"The King is sick, Lulan," the General whispered. "The same man who signed the order to have you cast out is dying of a tumor that no one in Europe dares to touch. They are going to come looking for the 'Ghost Surgeon'-the woman who has been breaking records in Zurich."
Lulan's eyes narrowed as she looked at the file. "They don't know it's me."
"No. They think you are a ghost. When they come begging, you make them crawl. You don't just save a King, Lulan. You buy a Kingdom."
That night, the Great General Julian Lascourine passed away in his sleep.
The Rise of the Director
The funeral was a silent, powerful affair. Lulan stood at the grave, dressed in a black tailored suit that fit her like armor. Behind her stood the four children, their faces solemn, their presence a silent promise of the future.
She didn't stay in mourning for long. Within months, she used the General's inheritance to break ground on the most advanced medical facility the world had ever seen: The Lascourine Memorial Hospital.
She wasn't just a surgeon anymore. She was a titan. She hired the best minds, bought the best technology, and waited. She knew the power of silence. For six years, she had been a shadow.
One morning, she stood in front of the mirror in her new office. She looked at her reflection. She was twenty-seven years old, a billionaire, the head of a global medical empire, and the mother of four geniuses.
She picked up a photo of Leonard that she had kept in the back of a drawer-not for love, but for fuel. She took a match, lit the corner, and watched the Prince's face curl into ash.
"It's time," she whispered. "The opening gala is in a week. Let's see if Belgravia is ready for the return of the dead."