My stomach twisted in a knot of certain uncertainty, a cold, oily sensation that had nothing to do with the cancer and everything to do with the sheer wrongness of my surroundings. My internal compass, already skewed by Dr. Robertson's death sentence, was spinning wildly now.
What was this place? I scanned the opulence of the lobby, my eyes searching frantically for a familiar anchor. I wanted to see a stray wheelchair, the sterile blue of a nurse's scrubs, or even just the faint, biting scent of rubbing alcohol. But there was nothing. Where were the other patients? Where were the rows of beige plastic chairs or the stacks of outdated health magazines? This wasn't a clinic; it was a cathedral of commerce, a silent engine of wealth that didn't seem to care that I was dying.
The receptionist across the floor took note of my hesitation. She raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows in a silent, sharp query. "May I help you?"
"Amanda McCann to see... Mr. Jason?" I asked. My voice came out weak and thin, lacking the substance of the people moving around me. I gripped the strap of my bag, my knuckles white, praying I'd remembered the name right and hadn't just hallucinated the chauffeur's brief introduction in a fever dream of exhaustion.
The woman's professional mask softened into a brief, practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She nodded toward the central elevator, a birdcage of wrought iron and burnished brass that looked like it belonged in a pre-war Paris hotel. "He's waiting for you, Ms. Amanda. Go on up. Penthouse office."
I moved toward the elevator, the shaft of which was wrapped in the elegant, sweeping curve of a marble staircase. I felt like a smudge on the polished floor. The doors slid open the very instant my finger brushed the call button, a chime ringing out like a bell. Was it a sign? I'd had such a catastrophically bad run of luck lately that I was ready to read destiny into a perfectly timed elevator. I stepped inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a girl who looked far too small for her oversized clothes.
I hit the button for the twelfth floor. As the car began its silent, gravity defying ascent, I fumbled in my jacket pocket for my cellphone. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat in my ears. I quickly typed out the full address of the building and sent it to Elisa. She had already blown up my phone with a barrage of texts and missed calls; the notifications were stacking up on my lock screen like a frantic digital wall. I couldn't answer them, not yet. I didn't have the heart to give her more bad news, and I certainly didn't know how to explain why I was in a bank building instead of a hospital.
I was just relieved to see she'd at least read my previous message. Feeling a marginal, fragile sense of safety, I shoved the phone back into my pocket just as the doors chimed again.
Just as it had been in the lobby, every window on the penthouse floor was shrouded by heavy, floor to ceiling linen shades, cutting off the spectacular view of the Cleveland skyline. It felt intentional as if the world outside didn't exist up here. A striking redhead sat behind a minimalist reception desk. She wore an immaculate cream blouse and a strand of heavy pearls that I had no doubt were authentic and cost more than my entire four year tuition.
Once again, the contrast hit me like a physical blow. I felt distinctly grubby and out of place, like a background extra who had wandered onto a high fashion stage set directly from the rain slicked streets. I had dressed for a Tuesday morning lecture and a grim oncology appointment: jeans, an old sweater, and sneakers, not for whatever this was.
A sick, burning sensation rose in my throat, a sudden, sharp conviction that there had been some massive, bureaucratic confusion. These people dealt in high stakes finance or international secrets. There was some kind of mix up; they wouldn't be able to help me. No one could. I was a girl with a broken blood count in a room full of people who probably didn't even know how to bleed.
"Ms. Amanda?" The woman asked. Her smile was pitched with a pleasantry so perfect it felt engineered in a lab. "Mr. Jason will see you now."
She didn't wait for me to agree. She must have pressed a hidden button beneath the desk, because the massive, floor to ceiling mahogany doors behind her swung open with a heavy, silent grace. They were easily ten feet tall, imposing and dark.
I braced myself, pulling the last of my zeal from the empty reserve in my chest, and stepped inside. The doors clicked shut behind me with a sound final and firm, sealing me into the inner sanctum of the man who promised hope.