A few days later, with the flu in my rearview mirror, I go back to work. I’ve been at my desk for a grand total of two hours when the hospital calls.
“Ms. St. Clair?” Dr. Patel’s voice is carefully neutral, but I’ve been around doctors long enough to recognize when they’re padding bad news with professional detachment.
“What happened?” I grip the edge of my desk, suddenly dizzy despite being seated. “Is she okay?”
“Your mother has experienced what we call a cascade failure. Multiple systems showing stress simultaneously.”
The room seems to tilt. “English, please, Dr. Patel.”
He sighs. “The cancer has spread more aggressively than we anticipated. Her liver function is declining, and there are new masses in her lungs.”
“But the treatment was working.” My voice cracks. “You said the numbers were improving.”
“It was. They were. But sometimes, cancer adapts.”
I close my eyes. Cancer adapts. Cancer evolves. Cancer finds a way. I’ve heard all the metaphors before, each one making this disease sound more like a supervillain than a collection of mutated cells.
“What are our options?” I ask, even though I already know the answer won’t be good.
“There’s an experimental protocol—immunotherapy combined with targeted radiation. It’s showing promising results in cases like your mother’s.”
“How promising?”
Dr. Patel pauses. “Forty-three percent remission rate in the initial trials.”
Not great. Not terrible. Just the same coin flip we’ve been gambling on for years now.
“And the cost?” I ask, bracing myself.
When he names the figure, I actually laugh. A short, bitter, bracing sound that has nothing whatsoever to do with humor.
“That’s more than I make in a year,” I tell him. “Even with my promotion.”
“I understand this is difficult, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice softens. “But without the treatment, your mother’s prognosis is… limited. Weeks, perhaps. A few months at most.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Weeks. Months. I knew this day would come eventually, but I thought we had more time. I thought the regular treatments were working. I thought—
“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” I force myself back to the present. “When does she need to start?”
“As soon as possible. Ideally, within the next two weeks.”
“I’ll figure something out.” The words come automatically, the same promise I’ve been making since I was eleven years old. I’ll figure something out, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.
After more details and a few unhelpful platitudes, I hang up. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop my phone twice before managing to set it on my desk.
Two weeks to come up with a small fortune.
Impossible.
Even if I emptied my savings, sold everything I own, and maxed out every credit card I could get my hands on, I wouldn’t come close.
I could ask Vince for a loan. The thought bursts into my mind unwanted, unwelcome.
No. Absolutely not.
My relationship—if you can call it that, which you shouldn’t—with Vincent Akopov is already complicated enough without adding financial desperation to the mix.
Besides, what would I even say? Hey, remember all those times you fucked me silly? Could you maybe pay for my mom’s experimental cancer treatment in return?
God, just thinking it makes me feel sick.
I stare at my phone after hanging up with Dr. Patel. I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life implode. That can’t be my mother he’s talking about.
Except it is.
I need to get to the hospital. Now.
My hands move mechanically, shutting down my computer, gathering my purse. I’m just going through the motions, operating on autopilot while my brain tries to process the impossible math problem I’ve been handed.
Experimental treatment plus Two weeks minus More money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime equals…?
Those are all words that make sense on their own, but when you string them together like that, it’s just nonsense syllables.
I rise from my chair, nearly knocking it over in my haste.
“Ms. St. Clair?” Diane’s voice cuts through my fog. “Is everything alright?”
I blink at her, struggling to form words. “I need to— I have to go. Family emergency.”
Her perpetually frosty expression softens just a fraction. “I’ll inform Mr. Akopov.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, already moving toward the elevator.
The doors are sliding open when I hear his voice behind me.
“Rowan.”
I freeze. Turn slowly.
Vince stands in the doorway of his office, brow furrowed. He must have overheard, or maybe Diane pressed some secret “the assistant is having a mental breakdown” button under her desk.
“I need to go,” I say, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears. “My mother—”
“What happened?” He’s moving toward me now, that predatory grace never more apparent than when he’s crossing a room with purpose.
“I just—I need to go.”
He nods once, decisively. “Take my car.”
“What? No, I can just—”
“Rowan.” It’s not my name; it’s a command. “The car is waiting downstairs. It’ll be faster than the subway.”
He’s right, of course. It would take me at least forty-five minutes by subway to reach the hospital. His car would get me there in fifteen.
I still hesitate. Taking his car seems like crossing yet another line in our already boundary-free relationship.
But Mom needs me.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping into the elevator.
He follows me in.
“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly worried he’s planning to come along. I can’t handle Vince and my mother and this diagnosis all at once. There’s only so much a human heart can bear before it just gives up entirely.
“Making sure you get to the car,” he says simply.
We ride down in silence. My mind races, trying to pull together a plan, a solution, anything that could possibly fix this situation. But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing I can do to conjure up the kind of money Mom needs.
The elevator reaches the lobby, and Vince places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the marble expanse toward the exit. His driver is already waiting at the curb, door held open.
“Call me when you know more,” Vince says, his voice low.
I nod, unable to trust my voice.
Then I’m in the backseat of his obscenely luxurious car, surrounded by the scent of leather and his cologne, hurtling through Manhattan traffic toward the hospital.
The journey is a blur. I stare out the window but see nothing. The city could be on fire and I wouldn’t notice. My mind is too busy spiraling, calculating, panicking.
I could sell my apartment—if I owned it, which I don’t, so that’s useless. I could beg my absent father for money—except I haven’t seen him since the day I was born and have no idea where he is. I could rob a bank—but I’m five-foot-four and couldn’t intimidate a hamster, let alone a security guard.
Which leaves… what?
The car pulls up to the hospital entrance, and I mumble a thank you to the driver before stumbling out.
The automatic doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with that familiar hospital stench. I don’t think there’s anything on this planet I hate more than the hell-brewed antiseptic they use in these places.
Mom’s ward is on the fourth floor. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the physical exertion to burn off some of my frantic energy.
By the time I reach her room, I’ve composed myself. Or at least I’ve forced my face into something that doesn’t scream “your daughter is falling apart.”
I knock softly on the door frame.
“There’s my girl!” Mom’s voice is weaker than the last time I visited, but her smile is as bright as ever. She’s propped up against pillows, a colorful scarf covering her hair loss. The TV is muted, some game show playing silently in the background.
“Hey, Mom.” I cross the room and kiss her forehead, trying not to wince at how paper-thin and fragile her skin feels under my lips. “How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, you know. Like a million bucks. Just… after taxes.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit. Tell me what brings you here in the middle of a workday. Did you finally get fired for making eyes at that handsome boss of yours?”
“Mom!” Even now, she can make me blush. If she only knew. “I just missed you, that’s all.”
She narrows her eyes, studying my face with the precision of someone who’s known me my entire life. “Dr. Patel called you, didn’t he?”
I look away. “Maybe.”
“And told you about the fancy new treatment.”
“Mom—”
“And the ridiculous cost.”
I sigh, defeated. “Yes.”
She takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cold, the skin translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface. “Sweetheart, we’ve had this conversation. I’ve made my peace with—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, an edge of desperation in my voice. “Please don’t say you’re okay with dying when there’s still a chance of beating this thing.”
“A very small chance,” she corrects gently. “At a very big price.”
“I’ll figure something out. I always do.”
“Rowan Elizabeth.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength. “Look at me.”
I do, though it takes every ounce of will I possess not to crumble.
“You have been taking care of me since you were a child,” she says. “You have put your life on hold, worked jobs you hated, sacrificed everything to keep me going. And I love you more than words can express for it.”
“Mom, please—”
“But I won’t let you destroy yourself for a treatment that might buy me a few extra months, at best.”
“Forty-three percent remission rate,” I argue. “That’s not nothing.”
“It’s also not a guarantee.” She gently touches my cheek. “And even if it worked, what then? More treatments? More debt? More of you putting your life on hold?”
I blink back tears. “You are my life.”
“No.” Her voice is firm. “I’m your mother. And it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around. I’ve failed at that for too long.”
“You haven’t failed at anything,” I protest. “It’s not your fault you got sick.”
“Maybe not. But it would be my fault if I let you sacrifice your future for a past-due bill I can’t pay.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft beeping of her monitors and the muffled hospital announcements from the corridor.
“What if I can find a way?” I finally ask. “What if I can get the money without… without destroying myself?”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What kind of way?”
I think of Vince. He could write a check that would cover this treatment without even noticing the money was gone.
He took care of me when I was sick, didn’t he?
Then I think of the complications, the implications, the strings that would inevitably come attached to that kind of help.
“Just… a way,” I say vaguely. “Nothing illegal or dangerous.”
“Or demeaning?” she presses, seeing too much as always.
I force a smile. “Would I do anything demeaning?”
“For me? In a heartbeat.” She sighs. “That’s what worries me.”
I lean forward, resting my head on her shoulder the way I did as a child. She still smells like Mom beneath the hospital soap and medication. That’s enough to break my heart all over again.
“Let me try,” I whisper. “Just let me try to find a solution. And if I can’t—”
“If you can’t, we accept reality,” she finishes for me. “Promise me, Rowan.”
“I promise.”
It’s the first promise I’ve ever made to her that I’m not sure I can keep.
