EDORA's POV
"Ms. Williams, your father has been admitted to the hospital for an emergency operation, and we'll be needing your presence as soon as possible."
and those words made my heart fall into my stomach
The voice on the other end of the line was not human; it was a cold, metallic pronouncement of my fate. It was the sound of my safe world imploding.
My cheap phone clattered onto the floor of the locker room, its light flickering in a pointless, mocking rhythm. Emergency operation. The words ricocheted inside my skull, impossible and foreign. Just moments ago, I had been laughing with Ciara, thinking about buying ginger ale for Pop. Now, the adrenaline was a cold, vicious flood, purging my body of every feeling except raw, animal terror.
My reserve dissolved entirely. My quiet, observant nature, my carefully constructed defense mechanism, all disappeared. I ripped my brown leather jacket from the hook, grabbed my bag with a sickening, panicked jerk, and sprinted out of the cafe. The cheerful chime above the door of Beachwood Cafe wailed a final, cruel farewell as I burst through, leaving the sanctuary of coffee and calm behind me.
The Los Angeles evening air hit me with a frantic chill. I didn't care about traffic, rules, or who I bumped into; I just ran down the sidewalk, every shadow a threat, my eyes scanning wildly for a taxi. I stumbled into the street and flagged down a cab with a desperate, wild gesture.
"St. Jude's Hospital! Emergency! Please!" I shouted, tumbling into the back seat. My voice sounded shredded, belonging to a stranger.
The cab driver, a large man with weary eyes, glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the terror painted on my face, and didn't utter a single question. He simply slammed the gas. The drive was a chaotic, ten-minute blur. I pressed my face against the cold glass, trying to ground myself, but my mind was an echo chamber of grief.
He is the only one I have left. I can't be alone.
The world is too cruel to face alone. I played back every memory of my mother's final days, and the fear of that suffocating loneliness became a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
I threw a wad of crumpled bills at the driver, barely waiting for the cab to stop before I burst onto the curb and sprinted toward the towering, imposing entrance of St. Jude's Hospital.
The atmosphere change was instant and violent. The hospital air was frigid and aggressive, smelling of antiseptic, sharp bleach, and expensive dread. It was the opposite of my little cafe, a system built on policy, not humanity.
I raced to the reception desk, my lungs burning, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
"Philip Williams! He was just brought in! Emergency!" I demanded, my hands slamming onto the marble desk.
The receptionist, a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a blank expression, was a fortress of infuriating calm.
"One moment, Ma'am. I'm checking the system. Ah, Mr. Williams is in pre-op, Room 412. Are you the immediate next-of-kin?"
"Yes! I'm his daughter, Edora Williams. I need to see him. Where is Room 412?"
"Fourth floor, Ma'am. But you may not enter the area. You can wait in the visitor's lounge for the doctor's update." She pointed to a section of padded, beige chairs.
"I am not waiting!" My voice cracked with frustration. I abandoned the desk, darted past the polite woman, and raced for the elevators, choosing the stairs at the last second. Up. Up. Up. Every step was a prayer and a plea.
When I reached the fourth floor, I found the room number. 412. I reached for the door handle, desperate just to see his face, to prove to myself that Pop was still a reality I could cling to.
"Ma'am! You can't go in there."
A bulky security guard and a gentle, harried-looking nurse simultaneously blocked my path. Being stopped was the final, devastating insult. I started to shake violently.
"That's my father! I need to see him! Just for one minute!" I pleaded, tears finally scalding my cheeks.
"Ms. Williams, please. The doctors are stabilizing him. They will be out shortly to discuss the procedures." The nurse took my arm, her touch soft but firm. "You need to calm down."
The agonizing minutes of waiting stretched into an eternity. I paced the corridor, the endless, low hum of machinery and the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a mocking symphony of modern medicine. Every sound confirmed that my life was now running on a cold, indifferent system.
Finally, a man in scrubs emerged. His expression was detached, a professional distance born of delivering bad news daily.
"Ms. Williams? I'm Doctor Reyes. Your father suffered a severe diabetic episode, complicated by acute kidney failure. He is stable, but barely. We need to perform complex surgery immediately to save his life. The good news is, the prognosis is excellent if we act within the next forty-eight hours."
Relief and terror slammed into me at once. Fixable. But the word was immediately followed by the unavoidable condition. I wondered how my dad could be suffering from diabetes and felt the need to keep it from me. But I realized now wasn't the time to question but to focus
I wiped my face with the heel of my hand. "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you. What forms do I sign? I'll sign everything right now." I say rushingly
Dr. Reyes simply nodded toward a woman in a severe navy suit, who stepped forward holding a flawless clipboard.
"My name is Ms. Alcott. Before we can commence the procedure, Ms. Williams, we require a minimum deposit to cover immediate surgical costs and resource allocation. The total deposit needed is $20,000."
The number was a physical blow. Twenty thousand dollars. It wasn't just a number; it was a wall of concrete built between me and my father's life. It represented years of my meager barista salary, every hour of overtime I had worked since my college dream died. My legs buckled. My mind, usually sharp and observant, simply shut down.
The air grew thick and heavy. I couldn't force a single breath into my lungs. My vision tunneled until the only thing left in the world was the cruel, bold $20,000 printed on the clipboard.
I was having a panic attack. My hands flew to my throat, clawing for air. The sound of the hospital, the beeping, the rolling carts, began to distort, rushing toward me, then dissolving into silence. I slid down the cold, unrelenting corridor wall, collapsing onto the floor in a humiliating heap.
"Ms. Williams! Come with me" A nurse rushed over, pulling me up.
She rushed me into a quiet, empty side room, a sterile, white box.
"Breathe with me, honey, breathe with me. Slow. In. Out." The nurse's voice was a soft anchor in my personal storm. She gave me water and coached my breathing until the world stopped spinning. The humiliation of my lack of control was total, but the immediate crisis passed.
I pushed myself up. I was the breadwinner. I couldn't afford to be weak. I returned to the Doctor, my face scrubbed clean of tears, my voice shaking with forced steadiness.
"Doctor Reyes, please, listen to me." I turned to the Administrator, meeting her cold, indifferent eyes. "I will pay you. I promise. Every dollar. I swear on my life. But I do not have that kind of money right now. I am the only family my father has. If you start the surgery now, I will work a second job, a third. I will find a way. Please, his life is worth more than a policy. You have to start the operation." I beg shamelessly
My plea was raw, stripped bare of all pride and reserve. I was offering my entire future, my entire self, for his survival.
The Administrator, Ms. Alcott, adjusted the cuffs of her expensive navy suit. Her expression didn't change. "I understand your distress, Ms. Williams. But without a secured deposit, hospital policy dictates we cannot commence an operation of this complexity. We are not a charity, and this is a major surgical procedure. We will wait for your deposit to be processed."
"Wait? For how long? He has forty-eight hours! Are you going to let him die over a number on a page?!" I cried, the desperation overwhelming my forced calm.
"We are adhering to protocol, Ms. Williams. We can begin processing a payment plan once the initial deposit is made. Until then, the patient remains stable, but non-priority for surgery." She handed me a pamphlet with a list of financial institutions, a gesture of polished cruelty.
The word "protocol" was the absolute, unyielding answer of the wealthy world to the desperate prayers of the poor. I was rejected. My plea was worthless.
I walked away, my defeat total. My mind raced through the only contact I had left: Ciara. I pulled out my silent phone, my thumb hovering over her number. Ciara was my mother figure, yes, but she had her own small business, her own constant struggles with rent and supplier costs. I couldn't dump this catastrophic, life-or-death burden on her. The crushing realization that I was utterly isolated, that no one was coming to save us, was the most painful weight of all.
I needed air. I needed to escape the cold, suffocating silence of the hospital lobby. I turned blindly, pushing through the heavy exit doors, the need for immediate escape overriding every sense of caution. I was running on fumes, my vision blurred by unshed tears and desperation, my entire focus fixed only on putting distance between myself and that terrifying $20,000 figure.
I rounded the corner of the main lobby, moving too fast, too frantic, my senses dulled by panic.
And then I collided, hard, violently, with a wall of solid, unyielding human force.
The impact slammed the air out of my lungs, forcing a sharp, embarrassing cry past my lips. My bag flew across the polished floor, scattering the sparse contents of my life: a lipstick, a crumpled Beachwood receipt, a couple of dollars in change. I stumbled backward, catching myself on the cold, unforgiving wall.
My panicked eyes lifted to meet the person I had hit.
He was massive, easily six-three, dressed in a flawless, dark suit that smelled faintly of high-end leather and power. His appearance screamed of bespoke tailoring and untouched wealth. His face was sharp, severe, and devastatingly handsome, but utterly devoid of sympathy. His striking eyes, a cold, indifferent shade that seemed to analyze every flaw were fixed on me with a look of pure, annoyed inconvenience. He was the literal, breathing embodiment of the power and control I had just been fighting against.
He barely moved, but his disdain was clear. He looked down at my disheveled appearance, my tear-streaked face, and the scattered contents of my life, as if I were a piece of debris that had momentarily inconvenienced his path.
His voice was a low, demanding rumble, cold and absolute, and it was the first thing he said.
"Watch where you're going"