Chapter 7: Survival Mode

CHLOE 

They discharged me on a Thursday morning under a sky the color of wet concrete.

The nurse wheeled me to the main entrance with Leo’s discharge papers in a clear plastic folder on my lap. He was still in the NICU. The doctors would not release him for at least another twelve days. I was allowed to leave only because my incision was healing and the hospital needed the bed.

I signed the final forms in the lobby while a cold draft pushed through the automatic doors. The social worker handed me a list of local resources. Food banks. Temporary housing. A clinic that offered sliding-scale care. I folded the paper once and slid it into my bag without looking at it.

Outside, the air smelled of rain and exhaust. I stood on the sidewalk with my single suitcase and the empty car seat the hospital had required me to take. The car seat felt like a cruel joke. I had no car. I had no baby in my arms.

I walked six blocks to the bus stop, moving carefully so the stitches would not pull. Every step reminded me that my body was no longer entirely my own. It had been opened, emptied, and sewn shut. The dull ache followed me onto the bus and all the way back to the motel.

Mrs. Higgins was behind the front desk when I pushed the door open. She glanced at the empty car seat, then at my pale face, and simply nodded toward the hallway.

“Room twelve is still yours,” she said. “I held it.”

I paid for another two weeks in cash. The envelope of money I had left was noticeably thinner.

The room looked smaller than I remembered. The same stained carpet. The same thin curtains that never fully closed. I set the car seat on the floor beside the bed and sat down carefully, one hand pressed against the thick bandage under my shirt.

For a long time, I did nothing but listen to the hum of the old refrigerator and the rattle of the heating unit.

Then, I opened my laptop.

Before I could check my emails, I logged into the hospital portal. I needed to see the damage. The screen loaded, and my breath caught in my throat.

The total balance for the emergency C-section, the blood transfusions, and Leo's projected three-week NICU stay was staggering. It was a number with too many zeros. A figure that would take me a lifetime to pay off on minimum wage.

I stared at the screen until the numbers blurred. Then I picked up my phone and dialed the hospital's billing department.

"Miss Vance," the billing agent said, her voice polite but robotic. "We can set up a monthly payment plan. Based on your current financial disclosure, we can offer a minimum of eight hundred dollars a month."

Eight hundred dollars a month. I barely had three hundred dollars to my name.

"I will have the money," I said, my voice steady. "I just need time."

I hung up the phone and buried my face in my hands. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to choke me. I could not afford this. I could not afford the motel. I could not afford to feed myself, let alone pay for the care my son needed to survive.

I forced myself to breathe. I could not fall apart.

I got up and walked to my suitcase. I dug through the layers of basic clothes until my fingers brushed a small velvet box hidden at the bottom.

I opened it. Inside lay the diamond eternity band Damian had given me on our first wedding anniversary. I had meant to leave it behind, but I had grabbed it in a moment of frantic panic. It was the only thing of value I had left.

I grabbed my coat and walked out of the motel.

Two blocks down, past a closed diner, was a pawn shop with a flickering neon sign. The bell above the door chimed as I walked in. The man behind the counter smelled of stale cigars and looked at my pale face with a bored expression.

He took the ring, examined it through a jeweler's loupe, and named a price. It was barely a fraction of what it was worth. A cruel insult to the three years of my life it represented.

"Take it or leave it," he grunted.

I thought of Leo in his incubator. I thought of the eight-hundred-dollar monthly bill.

"Take it," I said.

I walked out with a thick wad of cash. That diamond had been a symbol of a lie. Now, it was going to pay for my son's survival.

I returned to the motel, opened my laptop, and typed a short reply to Mr. Henderson.

I will be back on site Monday. The work will be finished on schedule.

I hit send. Then, I opened a new document and began listing every design contact I still had who did not know the name Sterling. By the time the light outside had faded, I had sent six emails offering residential consultations at rates low enough to undercut every established firm in the area.

At 9:40 p.m., my phone buzzed.

It was the NICU.

Leo’s oxygen levels had dipped for a short period. They had stabilized him again. The nurse’s voice was calm, practiced. I listened, asked the necessary questions, and ended the call.

I opened the notebook I had started in the hospital. I crossed out the line that said Twelve days and wrote Eleven days instead.

Then, I set an alarm for 5:30 a.m. and pulled my laptop back onto my lap. I opened a blank drafting program, pulled up the blueprints for the hotel, and started working.

Outside, the rain finally started to fall. I ignored it. I just kept drawing lines, calculating angles, and forcing my tired brain to focus.

At 3:00 a.m., a new email popped into my inbox.

The subject line read: Re: Design Consultation - Oakhaven.

I clicked it.