The sliding doors of St. Mary's Hospital flew open, and Isla stumbled inside, chest heaving, lungs burning from the sprint across the parking lot. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed to pierce straight through her skull, bathing everything in that same unforgiving yellow-white glare she'd stared at for months—except tonight, it felt crueler. Unfeeling.
Her uniform was still torn from climbing out of Blackstone's building. Tiny streaks of dried blood clung stubbornly to her arms and sleeves, souvenirs from jagged glass she'd barely noticed cutting her. She must've looked feral—wild-eyed, exhausted, clothes ruined—but none of it mattered. Only Emma mattered.
She slammed against the reception desk, her voice breaking. "Emma Martinez. I got a call, where is she? Please..my sister, where is she?"
The woman behind the counter in herlate forties, heavy-lidded eyes that screamed of night-shift exhaustion glanced up. Sharon, her nameplate read. At first she looked irritated, the way hospital staff often did when yet another frantic family member showed up screaming. But something in Isla's voice must have struck through, because Sharon's face softened.
"Room 314. Oncology floor," Sharon said gently. "Take the elevator up to three, turn left. But honey—"
Isla was gone before Sharon could finish.
Her shoes slapped against the linoleum as she sprinted down halls she knew too well. Fourteen months of this place had carved its geography into her memory: the peeling paint by the vending machines, the little alcove where exhausted parents cried into Styrofoam cups of coffee, the smell of antiseptic that clung to everything and yet somehow never masked the odor of sickness and slow death.
She'd walked these halls a thousand times. But tonight they felt foreign. Tonight every step felt like walking toward the edge of a cliff.
Room 314. The door stood half open. Machines beeped inside, a mechanical lullaby of fear. And there—small, fragile, yet achingly familiar..was Emma.
"Doctor?" Isla's voice cracked as she pushed through.
Dr. Peterson turned from where he stood at the foot of the bed, speaking in low tones to a nurse. His face usually calm, almost fatherly was pinched tight. Isla had seen that look before, four years ago, when her mother's body was failing. She'd prayed never to see it again.
"Her counts spiked overnight," Peterson said gently. "The infection we were monitoring.., it's worse. We've moved her into intensive care protocols and switched to stronger antibiotics, but…"
"But what?" Isla snapped, the words too sharp, too frantic.
"Isla."
The whisper came from the bed. Emma's voice very weak, thready, yet deliberate.
Isla rushed to her side, kneeling until her face was level with hers. She took her sister's hand carefully, terrified of hurting her. It felt so small. Too small.
Eighteen should've meant soccer games, college applications, first crushes. Instead, Emma's body was betraying her. Her scarf is a bright yellow one Isla had bought last week, slid slightly askew, exposing more of her bare scalp than Isla wanted to see. Her skin was too pale, her cheeks hollow, her eyes enormous and far too knowing for her age.
"You look terrible," Emma whispered, lips quirking up in a ghost of a smile.
Isla choked on a laugh. "You should see the other guy."
"Liar." Emma's fingers tightened weakly around hers. "You've never been in a fight in your life."
If only you knew, Isla thought, remembering the plant pot, the glass, Marcus's threats still echoing in her ears. But Emma didn't need those shadows. Not now.
"Doctor says you're just being dramatic for attention," Isla teased, brushing a nonexistent strand of hair from her sister's forehead. "Typical teenager."
Emma smiled, but it faded quickly. "Isla, I heard them. The nurses. They think I can't, but I can. They said something about… about the new treatment. The experimental one."
Dr. Peterson shifted uneasily. "Emma, you should rest"
"No." Emma's voice sharpened, carrying a weight that didn't belong to an Eighteen-year-old. "I want the truth. Please."
Isla looked at him. He sighed, shoulders sagging. "The trial is promising, but expensive. Insurance won't cover it."
"How expensive?" Isla asked, though dread already crawled up her spine.
"Initial course: two hundred thousand. If successful, maintenance for two years is half a million total."
The air left Isla's lungs. Half a million. She couldn't even picture that much money. She made eight hundred a week. Emma's life now had a price tag stamped on it, and it was laughably out of reach.
Emma's thumb brushed over Isla's knuckles. "It's okay. I'm tired of fighting anyway."
"Don't you dare." Isla's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare say that."
"I watched you do everything for Mom, and it didn't work. Now you're killing yourself for me. When does it end?"
It ends when I sell my soul to Adrian Blackstone, Isla thought, the image of his steel-gray eyes slicing through her chest. But she swallowed it.
"It ends when you're better," Isla whispered fiercely. "When you're healthy. When you're sneaking into frat parties and rolling your eyes at curfews. When you're living. That's when."
Emma's eyes filled, tears clinging stubbornly. "And if I can't?"
The door banged open.
"—don't care what visiting hours are! She's my daughter!"
The voice was slurred, raw, and devastatingly familiar.
Ramon Martinez stumbled in, reeking of whiskey, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red. Their father. Once, long ago, he'd been strong, charming, the kind of man who could light up a room. Now he was a ruin, a man hollowed out by cards and dice and bad choices.
"Daddy," Emma whispered, disappointment etched in every syllable.
He staggered toward the bed, but Peterson stepped forward. "Mr. Martinez, you need to leave until you're sober."
"I'm fine," Ramon snapped, though his hand gripped the doorframe to keep from toppling. "I just want to see my little girl. And talk to her sister. About family business."
"Not here," Isla said sharply. "Not now."
"When else, huh? You don't answer my calls, you're never home."
"Because I'm working. Because someone has to pay rent. Because someone has to keep Emma alive."
His face twisted. Shame and anger warred inside him, but the alcohol won. "Don't lecture me. I've been dealing with problems since before you could walk."
"What problems, Dad?" Isla's voice trembled but grew louder. "The ones you made when you gambled away Mom's life insurance? When you put a lien on our house? Or the new ones, the ones you made last night?"
"I had a sure thing this time"
"There are no sure things!" Isla exploded, the rage ripping out of her after years of swallowing it. "There's just you. Losing. Always losing. While Emma.." Her voice broke. "While Emma is dying."
Emma tugged at her hand weakly. "Please stop."
But Ramon wasn't listening. He jabbed a finger at Isla. "You think you're better? Cleaning toilets for rich bastards? You're just as stuck as me. Just as powerless."
"At least I'm trying," Isla spat.
"Trying?" He laughed bitterly. "What's eight hundred a week gonna buy? That bed costs more than that every day. You want to help? Get me five grand. I can turn it into fifty."
Isla stared at him like he was a stranger. "She's dying, and you want poker money?"
"I can fix this!" His voice cracked. "I just need one more chance—"
"No." Isla's voice was cold now. Deadly. "Get out."
"You can't.."
"You stopped being her father when you chose cards over chemo. When you chose the track over medicine. Get. Out."
For a flicker, he looked like the man she remembered—soft eyes, bedtime stories, the smell of motor oil and cigarettes after long days at work. But then he crumbled, slurring out, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Emma's lips trembled. "I love you, Daddy."
And then he was gone, leaving the stench of alcohol and failure in his wake.
Silence. Only the machines filled it, beeping in rhythm with Isla's heartbreak.
Peterson adjusted Emma's IV, then looked at Isla. "She needs rest. The next twenty-four hours are critical."
When Emma drifted to sleep, Peterson gestured her into the hallway. His expression was grim.
"Miss Martinez, I have to be blunt. Emma's insurance has reached its lifetime maximum. As of tomorrow, nothing more will be covered. Without payment, administration will discharge her within forty-eight hours."
The world tilted. "She's dying. You can't discharge her."
"I've argued with them. It's out of my hands. Thirty-seven thousand for this month alone. That doesn't include the trial drug."
Thirty-seven thousand. Adrian Blackstone spent more than that on cufflinks.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Unknown number.
'Eleven hours remaining. Choose wisely'.