Arthur’s gaze pins you.
“You can,” he says. “You have to. She needs you standing.”
So you eat. You chew too fast, swallowing like you’re afraid someone will take it away. You feel shame and relief battling in your stomach.
Arthur sits across from you in the waiting area, hands clasped. He stares at a blank wall like it’s showing him something no one else can see.
Minutes pass. Then an hour.
You hear footsteps, the squeak of shoes, the soft hospital music that plays like an apology.
A nurse approaches.
“Chloé’s stable,” she says. “We’re admitting her for observation and adjusting her treatment plan.”
Your knees almost give out.
Stable.
Not cured. Not fixed. But stable is a rope when you’ve been drowning.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Arthur nods once, eyes closing briefly.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the word sounds like prayer.
The nurse looks at Arthur again, hesitant.
“There’s also… paperwork,” she begins.
You stiffen immediately.
Paperwork is where poor people die.
Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone again, tapping quickly.
“Send all billing to Sterling Foundation,” he says without looking up. “Authorize whatever is needed.”
The nurse’s eyes widen, then she nods, almost bowing out of habit.
Your mouth opens.
“Mr. Sterling, I can’t let you—”
He cuts you off, voice low, dangerous in its calm.
“You can,” he says again. “Stop trying to earn what you need to survive.”
The words hit you harder than any insult.
Because he’s right.
You’ve been trying to prove you deserve help, as if dignity is a ticket you buy with suffering.
Arthur stands and walks toward a window overlooking the city. The skyline is a jagged line against the dusk, and the lights beginning to flicker on look like a thousand tiny lives continuing without you.
He speaks without turning around.
“Her name was Lily,” he says.
Your chest tightens.
“My daughter,” he continues. “She had a heart condition. Congenital. We tried surgeries. Specialists. Experimental protocols. We threw money at it like money was a weapon.”
He pauses.
“But you can’t bribe fate,” he says quietly.
You swallow.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
Arthur finally turns, and his eyes are wet, but his face is composed in that way only the truly devastated can manage. The kind of composure that isn’t strength, but survival.
“She died yesterday,” he says. “And this morning I woke up and realized… I have everything except the one thing I would trade all of it for.”
You don’t know what to say. Any response feels like stepping on glass.
Arthur’s gaze drops to your hands.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
You blink, realizing he never asked before.
“Ethan,” you say.
Arthur nods.
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