I hate hospitals.
Their sights, smells, and clinical chill always push bile up my throat. This time is no different. As I step into the towering, pristine building of Echelon Medical Center, a sudden wave of apprehension seizes me. I pause to catch my breath. A headache throbs, the pain wrapping tight around the crown of my skull. I massage my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut. I should have taken some painkillers before leaving the office; something told me I'd need them.
But I'd been too stressed out to think of myself, especially after Dr. Lucien's call. He didn't say much, but I'm afraid something terrible has happened.
Please, don't let her be dead, I pray. Anything but that.
First, I have to find Dr. Lucien, and I have to find him fast. The pressure of the office is still breathing down my neck. My boss, Gilmore, has given me exactly one hour to return.
"Why now, Mila? What about our important client?" he'd groaned earlier.
I'd blinked at him, speechless. Gilmore had been tight-lipped about who exactly was coming, but rumors had been swirling for weeks. Some said it was Visconti himself. I'd dismissed it as office gossip. Men like Damian Visconti didn't just show up to boutique agencies like ours.
But the way Gilmore's jaw had tightened when he said "important client" made my stomach drop.
"One hour," I'd promised. "I'll make it back in time."
Gilmore had glared at me for four long seconds before looking away, his fingers digging into his hair in frustration. "Our client will be here by four. Be back before then," he'd snapped before stomping out.
I pull my phone from my purse to check the time: 3:05 PM. My workplace is thirty minutes away. If I'm quick, I could do this. I just have to hope the news inside won't break me first.
My gaze flits around, stopping at the reception counter. A familiar tall figure is hunched slightly over the counter, scribbling notes. He leans up and slides a paper to the nurse stationed there. His face comes into full view as he turns away.
"Dr. Lucien!" I call, running over.
He stops and turns. The warmth in his face instantly fades into something unreadable.
"Mila, you're here," he says, regarding me with a small, close-lipped smile.
My heart rate spikes. "Is my mother okay?"
He must sense the tremor in my voice. Dr. Lucien sighs, patting me on the shoulder, small furrows dig into his forehead. "She's..." he pauses, weighing his words. "...the same as always."
The knot in my chest loosens a smidge. My mother being "the same as always" isn't exactly good news, but it isn't the tragedy I'd imagined either.
"One minute," Dr. Lucien says as his phone lights up. I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. The hustle of the hospital isn't new to me. Nurses stroll by with purpose, as if the ground burns their feet. Dr. Lucien finishes his call.
"Yes, Mila. Let's discuss this in my office."
I follow him to the elevator. The air is heavy with the smell of antiseptic and industrial bleach. In the distance, I hear a few screams; one from a child, another from a more mature throat. Goosebumps ripple over my skin.
Dr. Lucien opens his office door with a key card and lets me in. I take a seat and release a shaky sigh. What could he possibly need to tell me?
Blood rushes to my ears, the pounding in my chest echoing through my whole body. I bite my lower lip, attempting to control the anxiety.
"Mila," his voice is low and earnest. "The hospital has been asked to stop treating your mother."
My heart stops, crashing against my ribs. "What?"
My voice is too quiet. My second worst fear is materializing. I lean forward, a cold determination washing over me. "But I already signed the affidavit. The hospital accepted the house in exchange for her treatment!"
Four million dollars. Two months of round-the-clock care. The house I grew up in, signed away without hesitation. All of it about to mean nothing.
I'd already moved out, opting for a tiny apartment closer to the office. The house was a drop in the bucket, but it was collateral because my mother wasn't just any patient. She was a renowned psychiatrist in this hospital, hence the concession the board had made. No other hospital would have even considered it.
Dr. Lucien shakes his head. "The directive came from Marcus Kane. You know his word is final here." He clenches his jaw, the name clearly riling him up.
Marcus Kane, owner of Echelon Medical Center. He's also my father's longtime friend and business partner. I go still, my eyes widening as realization sinks in. "Does my father have anything to do with this?" I clench my fists.
Dr. Lucien doesn't say anything, but his silence is answer enough for me. I bolt out of my chair, storming toward the door. Arthur Thorne can't do this. He can't. I think of confronting him, showing up unannounced at his Manhattan mansion and demanding answers.
I'm halfway to the elevator when my senses return. Gilmore. I check my watch. 3:26 PM.
Damn it.
I have to get back. Gilmore's patience isn't exactly perpetual, and my paycheck, the only thing keeping me afloat at the moment, is on the line. Considering my father, Arthur Thorne, CEO of Thorne Global Group, has disowned me, I have no other safety net left besides my job at L'Etoile Noir.
I lean back against the cold elevator wall, face raised to the ceiling. Then step out once the doors hisses open.
---
A blast of warm air greets me outside, a stark contrast to the clinical ice of the hospital. In the parking lot, my phone vibrates in my purse while I scan the street for a taxi. Once upon a time, I'd had my own chauffeur and a car that cost more than most people's houses, but my father had seized those the moment I defied his orders to pay for Mom's treatment.
I sigh, reaching for my phone. Gilmore's name flashes on the screen for a split second before the display goes black. The battery is dead.
"Great," I hiss. "Just what I needed."
A taxi pulls up a minute later.
"Tebbs Street," I tell the driver as I slide into the back seat.
As we pull away from the curb, I stare at my hands, my father's face haunting my thoughts. Before I can stop them, hot tears blur my vision. How long is he going to keep doing this? I knew my parents had hated each other for years, but I never imagined the depths of his cruelty. Thwarting every effort to keep Mom alive has become his newest mission. He hadn't shown a flicker of remorse on the day of her accident.
That night, I'd driven thirty miles in a rainstorm to tell him that Mom had collapsed and tumbled down the stairs. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, perhaps a moment of shared shock? He'd looked up from his desk, unmoved. "She had it coming," he'd said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. When I'd started crying, he'd poured himself a glass of vintage scotch and toasted to "one less burden."
I'd left his mansion that night knowing I was truly alone.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my palm. My watch beeps as the driver makes a sharp U-turn. I'm twenty-six minutes away from the office. A notification flickers on the small screen. Since I'd synced my watch to my phone, reminders of unread messages pop up often. I scroll through a dozen frantic missed calls from Gilmore. The last message stops my heart:
"Visconti is here! Where the hell are you?"
I stare at the name, my blood running cold.
Visconti. Damian Visconti.
My eyes widen. The rumors were true. Damian Visconti, the CEO of Visconti Imperium, was the important guest.
"Oh, no," I mutter.
Gilmore isn't just going to be annoyed; he's going to kill me.
Breathe, Mila, breathe. Visconti is no ordinary client. Business magazines call him "The King of Manhattan" and "The Man Who Never Loses." He built an empire from nothing and destroys competitors with a single phone call. His patronage is the holy grail for L'Etoile Noir. Securing him could mean a massive promotion, a raise, and, most importantly, the funds to move my mother to a private facility where Arthur can't reach her.
He's also notoriously ruthless about punctuality.
And I'm about to walk in late.
I lean forward. "Sir, can you drive faster, please? I'm already late for a very important meeting."
The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes lingering on my red, puffy eyes for a fraction of a second. If he notices the tear stains, he's kind enough not to say anything. He just nods and steps on the gas.
But even as buildings blur past, I know the truth: I'm about to walk into that office late, tear-stained, and desperate, directly into the path of the most powerful man in the city.
Damian Visconti doesn't forgive mistakes.
And I'm about to make a spectacular one.