MILA
The walk to my mother's ward feels endless. My shoulders ache as if I've been carrying something too heavy for too long. I massage them as I walk, fingers pressing into the pressure points. I roll my neck from side to side until it cracks softly.
Maybe I shouldn't have spoken to Dan Kane in front of Father. Arthur probably knew I would show up. That's why he was there. The meeting was no coincidence.
My chest tightens as I let out a strained breath. Regret crashes over me.
Would it really have made a difference if I'd spoken to Dan Kane in private? He's been Father's best friend for thirty years. What were the chances of him going against Arthur's wishes to help me?
My eyes turn misty. I look up at the ceiling, blinking hard. I can't cry. Not now. Not yet.
I've come too far to give up now. Regardless of what Father wants, I'll find a way to save Mom.
A certain figure flashes through my mind. His contract. The crisp, expensive paper. Those deep-set eyes. The perfectly tailored three-piece suit.
I push the thought away.
A nurse is inside my mother's ward, probably checking her vitals. I pause by the glass window to watch.
My heart clenches as I watch her check the monitors, adjust the IV, then gently lower my mother's arm back to the bed. A cold weight settles into my chest.
I make my way inside. The steady beeping of the heart monitor fills my ears immediately, along with the soft hum of the IV pump.
The door clicks shut behind me. The nurse turns toward me.
"How is she?" I ask, my voice quiet.
"Stable," the nurse says.
I look over at Mom. Stable. The usual word. I sigh.
The nurse injects something into Mom's IV line, checks the bandage on her arm, then leaves quietly. I pull the vinyl chair closer to her bed and sit down.
The room is an unsettling blend of warmth and cold.
Mom's hand is warm when I reach for it. That's something. That's good. A tear slides down my cheek as I run my thumb across her knuckles.
"Please be strong, Mom." My voice cracks.
I wipe the tears from my face and sniff. I've never seen Mom look so pale and fragile. Her face has thinned over the months, and her cheekbones are now more pronounced. Her dark hair, streaked with more gray than I remember, spreads across the pillow like a fan.
I brush those fallen strands away from her face. Fear swells up inside me as I watch her.
The memory of her accident surfaces unbidden. She'd fallen from the stairs at home. One of her staff had said she was only two steps from the landing when it happened. Two steps. But the impact was enough.
My fingers dig into the sheets. My chest grows tight and aches with each breath. I shift my attention to the feeding tube taped to Mom's nose. The IV lines in her left hand. The compression stockings on her legs.
She was diagnosed with Cerebral Cascade Syndrome. The neurologist had explained it to me in his careful, clinical way. A rare degenerative neurological condition triggered by the head trauma from her fall. The impact caused a cascade of damage through her brain stem, affecting consciousness, motor function, everything. She slipped into a coma within hours and hasn't woken since.
My eyes light up.
An idea surfaces in my head just as I wipe away tears my from my cheek. The bank. Sterling Trust.
What if I speak with the bank manager again? I visited them two months ago, right after Father froze all my accounts and cut off my access to the trust fund my grandparents left me. I still had some money in an account Father didn't know about, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover Mom's treatment.
I'd gone to Sterling Trust to request access to Mom's savings. I don't know the exact amount, but I know there's enough. More than enough. But the bank manager refused. Something about Power of Attorney. About Father's name being on the accounts.
What if I try again? Maybe if I explain the urgency, that she'll be transferred in two days, they'll reconsider.
I glance at Mom one last time.
"Wish me luck," I whisper, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.
I linger near the door. Part of me wants to stay longer. Between work emergencies and Gilmore's endless demands, I barely have time to visit. Weekends if I'm lucky. Emergencies if I'm not.
I turn away, checking the time on my phone. I still have two hours before the bank closes for the day. If I can get there before closing, maybe I'll catch Mr. Harrison. He's the bank manager, the one who handled Mom's accounts. The only one who might be able to help.
My phone hasn't buzzed in over an hour. During the drive, I check for any missed calls and messages. Nothing. Not even from Gilmore. Thank goodness.
Dan Kane crosses my mind moments after I settle into the taxi. I search through my phone for his contact. Maybe he'd reconsider if I keep trying.
My finger taps the call icon. I press my phone to my ear, my heart thumping in anticipation.
The line goes straight to voicemail.
My toes curl in my shoes.
"Uncle Dan, it's Mila. Again. I know you said you can't help, but I'm begging you. Please. Just one more week. That's all I need. One week to figure something out. My mother doesn't deserve this. You know she doesn't. Please... please call me back."
Dread settles in my chest as the voicemail ends. I brush it aside, distracting myself with the streets of Manhattan whizzing by. Skyscrapers. Billboards. Neon lights. Endless traffic.
I focus on my phone again, my fingers darting over the keypad.
"Uncle Dan, please reconsider. I'll find the money. I promise."
I tap my right foot on the floorboard. No response. The cab stops at a red light. I bite my lower lip before my fingers twitch over the keypad again.
"You promised her you'd look after her if anything happened. Please don't break that promise."
The car begins to move again. I adjust in the back seat, counting from one to fifteen. Still nothing. My messages are marked as Read. But there's no typing indicator. No response.
I stare out the window. A cold realization washes through me.
He's not going to respond.
The thought hits me square in the chest. I open my bank apps, checking each one after the other. The amounts there are insufficient. Still, I check with the ridiculous hope that some funds will miraculously appear.
I have less than seventy-two hours to sort everything out. Mom's money is my only hope now. There has to be a way. Maybe if I explain how urgent this is, that she has two days before being transferred to a state facility, they'll reconsider.
It doesn't take long before I reach the bank. I step out of the car.
A man in an expensive three-piece suit catches my attention, stops me dead in my tracks. I gasp, eyes locked forward. For a moment I think it is him.
The person turns away, heading straight for a car parked nearby. The tightness in my chest loosens.
It's not him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale.
I shouldn't be thinking of him. Visconti shouldn't be an option at all. No matter what.
But what if the bank doesn't work out?
I shake my head. I can't think like that. There has to be a way to access Mom's accounts. Some clause, some loophole. Something.
I take in the towering building before me. I'm about to walk toward it when my phone beeps suddenly.
A message from... Father?
I frown.
Why is he texting me? It's been months since he last contacted me. Today was even the first time since I last saw him. I click on the message. Something about it doesn't feel right.
"Dinner tomorrow by 8 PM. Be there. We'll discuss your mother."
I pause. Father wants me at his house? Tomorrow?
I blink away the fog filling my mind. For a moment I consider calling him. Impromptu meetings with Arthur Thorne have never been a good thing. I stare longer at his message. The letters start to jumble together.
What could he possibly need to discuss about Mom?
Or... had he changed his mind?
A flicker of hope surfaces in my mind, but caution swiftly follows. I stroll into the bank, wondering what game Father is playing. It can't be because of the messages I sent Dan Kane. Or could it?
I put my phone back in my purse. A headache sets in as soon as the bank's cool air conditioning hits my face. The lobby is quiet. Soft classical music plays and a few customers loiter at the teller windows.
I pull out my phone again to check, wanting to confirm the message.
The name is clear on the top screen. Father. Below, the message is the same invitation sent only three minutes ago.
I'm definitely not dreaming.
Arthur Thorne wants me at his Manhattan mansion tomorrow, and Mother will be our topic of discussion. But Arthur never does anything without a reason. And something tells me this dinner isn't about helping her.