Chapter 1

Rowan's POV

The private room door suddenly swung open from the inside. I had no time to move.

My father, Zander Emerson, walked out of the room, surrounded by a crowd. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and stood tall and straight. He looked nothing like someone who had been sick for the past ten years.

I clutched the crate of liquor so tightly that my fingernails nearly dug through the cardboard. In front of me, he had always worn a faded hospital gown. He would gasp for air and clutch his lower back after taking just a few steps. But now, his complexion was rosy, and his laughter was loud and hearty.

The hotel manager bent forward to hold the elevator for Dad. "Mr. Emerson, your car is ready."

Suddenly, I felt a sharp, suffocating pain in my chest. I covered my mouth, but blood seeped through the gaps between my fingers, dripping onto the expensive carpet.

My supervisor rushed over and kicked me in the back of the knee. "Are you fucking insane? Do you have any idea how much this carpet costs.?"

I stumbled and fell to my knees, the crate of liquor crashing to the floor. Glass shattered, and liquor spilled everywhere.

My supervisor grabbed me by the collar and yelled, "You couldn't possibly pay for all this liquor!"

Dad finally stopped walking.

I instinctively lowered my head, hiding my blood-stained hands behind my back. Deep down, a small part of me still hoped he would recognize me, even if all he did was say my name.

However, he merely frowned at the blood on the floor. "This is Emerson Group's private gathering. Don't let people like that stay here. They're an eyesore."

My supervisor immediately nodded. "Don't worry, sir. I'll handle it right away."

The security guards dragged me toward the back exit. My palms scraped against the floor, and shards of broken glass sliced them open, leaving bloody gashes.

Even when the elevator doors closed, he still hadn't recognized me. My supervisor withheld all my wages for the night and forced me to sign an IOU for three thousand dollars.

I leaned against the wall and slowly made my way back to the basement.

When I plugged in my phone and turned it on, a voice message from Dad came through. "Rowan, I have dialysis again tomorrow. The hospital suddenly raised its prices again. I'm still short by 800 dollars. If you really don't have the money, that's fine. Skipping one session won't kill me."

After that, he forced out two coughs.

In the past, whenever I heard him cough, I'd worry so much I couldn't sleep at night. But now, all I could think about was how convincing his acting was. My bank account had exactly one thousand dollars. It was the deposit I had set aside for my own hospital stay.

My phone chimed again. Dad sent me a photo. There was medical tape stuck to the back of his hand, and there was a forged dialysis form beside him. The message read, "Rowan, don't worry about me. I'll get through this somehow."

I stared at that healthy hand and suddenly laughed. Just moments ago, he had used it to hold his wineglass in that private room. The watch on his wrist was worth enough to pay for dozens of my chemotherapy sessions.

I transferred 800 dollars to him. This wasn't for his dialysis. It was for the years I had lost taking care of him. I whispered, "Consider this repayment for the life you gave me."

I had just put down my phone when my mother, Morgana Sanders, called. "Rowan, didn't you have one thousand dollars in your account? Why did you only transfer 800 dollars?"

So, they even knew how much money I had.

I sat down against the edge of the bed. I said, "Mom, I have cancer"

There was silence on the other end. Then, Mom asked, "What?"

"I have late-stage lung cancer. The doctor said I might not live to see next month." I clenched the diagnosis report, waiting for her to ask where I was.

Yet, she just sneered, "Rowan, you're only 20! If you're going to lie, at least come up with something believable! Your father has been sick for ten years and never once complained. You've only been working for a few years, and now you're telling me you have lung cancer?

"Are you making it up just because you don't want to give up the remaining cash? Transfer the last 200 dollars right now. Are we clear?"

I deleted the photo of the diagnosis from my phone. I murmured, "Crystal. Just keep believing I'm making it up."

The line went dead. I collapsed against the side of the bed, coughing up blood until it quickly soaked half my shirt.

…

Third-Person POV

Meanwhile, Morgana told Zander what Rowan Emerson had said. She asked, "Rowan really has been coughing a lot lately. Should we get someone to check on him?"

Zander stared at the transfer notification, his expression turning grim. "He never used to keep a single penny for himself. Now he's not only hiding money from us, but also using a cancer diagnosis to test us. Looks like his devotion to us isn't as genuine as we thought."

He called his assistant, Ezra Williams. "Prepare a guarantee agreement for 100 thousand dollars. Then tell Rowan that my kidney transplant failed. If he doesn't sign it, the hospital will stop giving me my medication."

He added coldly, "This is the final test. Let's see who he'll choose when my life is on the line. Himself, or me."