"No way in hell I'm going to marry that psychopath!" Bianca snapped, her chair scraping harshly against the hardwood floor as she spun to face their parents.
Dashiell remained seated on the edge of the couch, hands folded neatly in his lap, carefully masking the sudden surge of anxiety tickling his chest. Sunday mornings were supposed to be calm, drinking coffee, the paper, maybe a little quiet. Not this.
Their Father sighed. "I know this is a lot to take in, princess, but you have to do this for the company. If you don't, everything your mother and I have worked for will fall apart."
Their mother, Charlotte, nodded, but Bianca only rolled her eyes.
"And how is that my problem?" Bianca shot back. She crossed her arms, her designer bracelet clinking softly, lips twisting as if she'd just been insulted. "You're basically asking me to sell my life so you can keep playing CEO."
"Bianca," Charlotte warned gently.
"No, seriously," she pressed on, standing now. Of course she was standing, Bianca never argued sitting down. "I have shows lined up. Milan. Paris. Do you know what marrying him would do to my image? To my brand?"
Selene, sprawled on the rug with her phone, glanced up. "Is he really that bad?"
Bianca scoffed. "He's insane. He's cold and a horrible human being, I think it's an insult to us humans to call him one of us. Everyone knows it. I'm not marrying some Lunatic so Dad can sleep at night."
Ethan, their father rubbed his temples. "This isn't about image. It's about survival."
"Well then, survive without me," Bianca snapped. "You have two other kids."
The words landed heavier than she intended.
The room went quiet.
Dashiell felt his father's gaze flick toward him, then away just as quickly. Charlotte's lips parted, like she wanted to say something but didn't know how. Selene shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in the rug.
"I won't do it," she said firmly. "End of discussion."
Dashiell couldn't stay silent any longer. The anxiety that had been prickling him since they'd called for this family meeting finally broke through.
"And why not?" he asked calmly, tilting his head slightly to look at her. He didn't understand how she could still refuse. She knew what would happen to the hospital, the same hospital that had funded her lavish lifestyle and the very brand she was bragging about.
"What did you say?" Bianca snapped.
"You heard me."
She scoffed, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling before fixing him with an appalled stare. "You know, I'm not surprised you'd support them selling off your sister for some quick cash."
"You're not being sold for quick cash," He replied evenly. "You're being married for millions of dollars that would help this family. Help the hospital, the same hospital that funded your lifestyle, your brand, everything you've built."
She gasped like he'd struck her.
"How dare you," Bianca hissed, her voice dropping into that sharp, wounded tone she used when someone finally pushed back. "Are you saying I'm the one who ran the hospital dry? That I'm some parasite while you sit there playing perfect son?"
Dashiell corked his head slightly. "I'm saying it helped you. The Milan shoots. The Paris trips. The downtown apartment. All of it came from the same place that's now bleeding out. If it shuts down, that stops. For everyone."
Bianca's face flushed red. She stepped closer, looming over him "You're unbelievable. You're only pushing this because if the hospital goes under, no one's going to hire a freak like you. Who'd want an autistic doctor, sorry, 'med school graduate'" she made sharp air quotes, twisting the words like poison, "...in their fancy ER when they can pick someone normal? You're terrified of being unemployed, so you're happy to throw your sister under the bus."
The word freak landed like a slap.
Dashiell didn't flinch. The sting settled deep in his chest, it was sharp, and familiar but he pushed it away. He'd heard worse before: from colleagues, from patients' families who mistook his directness for coldness. He wasn't going to let Bianca's anger rewrite facts.
He met her eyes steadily. Eye contact took effort, but he held it because she needed to hear this clearly.
"Statistically, you're wrong," he said, voice even. "There are autistic doctors practicing right now, thousands in the U.S. alone. Studies show around one percent of physicians identify as autistic, especially in fields like psychiatry, general practice, and surgery. Many are excellent at pattern recognition, detail work, and staying calm under pressure. They're employed. They're promoted and they are needed."
He paused, then added plainly, without softening the jab, "And if the hospital fails because we didn't try everything, you will be the one who chose image over survival. Not us."
Bianca stared at him, mouth open, as if he'd just diagnosed her with something terminal. Ethan looked between them, exhausted.
"That's enough," he said, his voice rough. "Both of you."
Bianca shook her head violently. "No. I'm not doing this. I'm not marrying that person. If Ethan's so desperate to save the precious hospital…" she spat the word like venom, "then he can marry Alexander Astor. Let him play the martyr."
She stormed toward the door, her heels clicking sharply on the wooden floorboards.
Dashiell stayed perfectly still. The room spun slightly, the fluorescent hum from the kitchen light suddenly too loud, the smell of his mom cooling coffee too sharp. He focused on his breathing.
In. Out.
The hospital. The kids he saw every day. The families who trusted him. The routines he'd built there. The quiet break room where no one judged him for needing five minutes alone.
If it closed…
He looked up at his parents. His mom's eyes were wet. His father looked like he'd aged ten years in ten minutes.
"I'll do it," Ethan said.
The words came out calm, almost casual.
Mom's breath hitched. "No, baby…"
"Why not?" Dashiell interrupted gently, cutting her off before the protest could build. "I don't mind marrying him. If it saves the hospital, then the hospital is what matters. The kids. The families. The staff. Everything we've built. I can handle it."
Ethan dragged a hand down his face. "Dash… Mr. Astor asked for my daughter. Not my son. He won't agree to this."
Dashiell understood what his father really meant. He wasn't homophobic, he'd marched in pride parades when Dashielle came out but he was old-fashioned. A same-sex arranged marriage for business felt like admitting defeat in a way money couldn't fix.
"Ask him," Dashiell said simply. "Bianca refused. If the deal requires a Harper child, offer the alternative. He's pragmatic. He'll see the logic."
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at his wife, who was already shaking her head.
"There's no need," Ethan said with finality. "He won't agree. And even if he did…Dash, this isn't right. You shouldn't have to…"
Dashiell was already standing, smoothing his shirt the way he always did when he needed to reset. The anxiety still buzzed beneath his skin, but he pushed it down.
"We'll see,"
That was all he said.
And just like that, the room felt smaller.
The decision hung in the air, impossible, inevitable, and entirely his.