Kicked Out I Unlocked My Ultimate Boss Mode novel Chapter 4

**TITLE: Broken Doesn’t Mean End**
**By M. Kaushik**

**Chapter 4: Who Do You Think You Are, Questioning Authority?**

The list lay before them, concise enough to be absorbed in a single, fleeting glance.

Four long years Helen had dedicated to the Morgans’ estate, and this was all that could be accounted for in terms of her expenses?

Just one flimsy sheet of paper?

If this information were to leak, the other high-society families would likely gossip that the Morgans were on the verge of financial ruin, treating their former daughter-in-law with such scant generosity.

Jacob’s eyes flickered towards the bank card resting on the table. “Check the balance on this,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

The butler, a shadowy figure in the corner, accepted the card and the list without uttering a single word, his expression inscrutable as he departed to ascertain the truth.

Sienna, unable to contain herself, opened her mouth to interject, but the moment her gaze met Jacob’s darkening expression, she swallowed her words. With an exasperated sigh, she muttered under her breath, “Are you seriously taking that list at face value? That little brat is just playing mind games, classic reverse psychology. She wants us to feel guilty, to believe we’ve wronged her. She’s fishing for sympathy, trying to play us into changing our minds.”

There was no way she could accept that Helen’s total expenses over four years amounted to a mere 500,000.

Even the housemaids at the Morgans’ estate must have racked up more than that sum in four years of service.

This kind of manipulation? She had witnessed it countless times before.

Meanwhile, back in the SUV, Dale Lowe, the man with the buzz cut, remained as still as a statue behind the steering wheel, his hands poised and unwavering on the wheel.

From the rearview mirror, he observed Helen, who was resting in the back seat, her eyes gently closed, an air of tranquility surrounding her.

“Boss,” he ventured, a hint of eagerness creeping into his voice, “now that you’ve officially left the Morgans, why don’t we head straight back to the Null Zone? The guys have been waiting for you to return.”

Helen opened her eyes just a fraction, her voice cool and detached. “For now…”

She trailed off, her thoughts interrupted by the sudden ringing of her phone.

She glanced at the caller ID—an unfamiliar number from Veridia.

With a sense of curiosity mixed with trepidation, she answered. On the other end, a frantic voice cut through the static. “Ms. Walcott! I’m George Bowen, the butler Mr. Walcott sent to pick you up. I’m so sorry… I’ve been in a car accident on my way to the Morgans’ estate. I’m at Veridia Hospital right now, in the ER!”

Helen’s brow furrowed slightly.

Ms. Walcott? Butler?

Hadn’t the Morgans’ background check revealed that her biological family resided in one of the most impoverished slums in Veridia?

Those two words—“Ms.” and “butler”—didn’t quite mesh with the image of slum life, did they?

“Ms. Walcott… I’m truly sorry for the delay,” George continued, his voice heavy with remorse.

Helen maintained her tone, even and almost detached. “Give me the address. I’ll head there myself.”

George hurriedly provided the name of the neighborhood, but before he could finish, a frantic shout erupted in the background.

“Family of the patient in Bed 1! Where’s the family for Bed 1? Blood pressure is plummeting! Heart rate is spiking! We suspect internal bleeding. She needs to go into surgery immediately!”

Amanda Porter, Maxwell Morgan’s personal medical assistant, was a prodigy in her own right. She had attended numerous international medical summits alongside him, earning respect for her clinical precision.

In Veridia Hospital, she served as Maxwell’s stand-in.

“This is Dr. Morgan’s direct order. He’s on his way as fast as he can. Until he arrives, we must stabilize the patient,” Amanda commanded sharply. She turned to the nurses with crisp authority. “Move! Start the protocol now!”

“Yes, ma’am!” the nurses responded in unison, rushing to comply.

But just as they began to move, a calm, clear voice echoed from the phone still lying on the floor. “If you go through with that injection, your hospital better be ready for a lawsuit.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the room like a knife, sending a wave of tension rippling across the floor.

The nurses froze mid-step.

“Who are you? What would you know?” Amanda snapped, frowning as she glanced towards the phone. She let out a cold laugh, turning back to the nurses. “Ignore it. We don’t have time to waste. The patient is dying!”

It was only then that George realized he had never hung up. He scrambled to grab the phone off the floor, his hands trembling. “Ms. Walcott…”

“Stop her.” Helen’s voice came through, calm and razor-sharp. “The patient cannot be given Norman Compound. Blue lips and gray fingernails are signs of long-term hypoxia. That drug contains Compound Y. If it’s administered now, it will trigger acute anaphylaxis on top of hemorrhagic shock. She’ll be dead in five minutes.”

George didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, blocking the nurses’ path with determination. “No! You cannot inject that drug!”

Amanda scoffed, arms crossed, radiating contempt. “You’d better think long and hard about the consequences,” she sneered. “Does your miss even have a medical license? Does she practice medicine? Dr. Morgan’s treatment plan is the gold standard. And you—who the hell are you to question it? The patient is dying, and if she dies because you delayed treatment—guess what? The hospital won’t be liable. You will.”

George stood his ground, his voice steady and unwavering. “Then put it on me,” he said sharply. “If Ms. Walcott says no, then it’s a no. I’ll take full responsibility.”