Chapter 2

"A huge burden off our shoulders."

Bruce had said it so casually.

I sat there staring at his familiar face, and for the first time, I realized just how much of a stranger he had become.

But I didn't argue. There was no point trying to reason with someone who had always put himself first.

Instead, I returned to the living room, clutched the cold bank statement against my chest, and spent the entire day sitting alone on the couch.

Finally, I wiped away my tears, pulled out my phone, and searched for a name.

William Underwood.

"Cheryl, what are you looking at?"

Bruce's voice pulled me from my thoughts. He leaned over my shoulder and caught sight of the appointment portal on my screen.

"Dr. William Underwood?" he gasped, his eyes lighting up. "Yes! That's him! My boss told me Dr. Underwood operated on his father's liver cancer, and the old man made a full recovery. You're incredible. I can't believe you managed to get in touch with him so quickly."

He patted my shoulder, showering me with praise and relief.

I gave a flat nod and locked my phone.

"Incredible."

Coming from him, it sounded almost insulting.

He had no idea what it had taken to get onto that waiting list. Over the past week, I had exhausted every connection I'd made since college.

I'd called old classmates, begged friends for introductions, and even reached out to professors I hadn't spoken to in years.

I'd spent hours glued to my phone, refreshing the appointment page over and over, terrified that I'd miss even a single notification.

I hadn't eaten or slept properly in days. And now Bruce casually assumed that all of it had been done for his father.

"Is it really that hard to get an appointment?" he asked eagerly.

"Yeah." I nodded.

"Don't worry about the money. We'll pay whatever it takes. If we have to hire a medical concierge or pay for an expedited service, we'll do it," he said, waving his hand with sweeping grandiosity.

"As long as Thomas gets treated, money is no object. Just focus on this for the next few days. Take some time off work. I'll make up whatever you lose in pay."

I looked at him, a bitter laugh bubbling in my chest.

"Money is no object..."

The $370,000 my dad had left behind was still sitting untouched in my account.

And when I'd spoken to William's administrative assistant, she'd made one thing very clear: they didn't accept kickbacks, rush fees, or special payments of any kind.

Everyone waited for their turn.

"Don't stress yourself out," Bruce added, softening his tone when I stayed silent.

"I know how much you care about Thomas, and I appreciate everything you're doing. Once he gets better, I'll buy you that designer handbag you've been eyeing."

That was his go-to trick.

Whenever he wanted something from me, he dangled some shiny trinkets in front of me as though that made my sacrifices worthwhile.

For years, he'd used this playbook to make me slave away for him and his family.

"I'm going to make dinner," I said flatly.

Over the next few days, our apartment became the stage for a grand performance of filial devotion.

He transformed overnight into the perfect son, hiring an interior designer to turn our guest room into a recovery suite for his father, Thomas Bradford.

"We need warm-toned wallpaper. It will help lift his mood. And let's put down cushioned cork flooring. It's slip-resistant and easier on his knees," Bruce said, pointing at his phone as he rattled off one expensive purchase after another.

"Replace the bed with a German electric medical bed. $80,000. Order it now. And get an air purifier, a humidifier, an oxygen concentrator... Forget the price. Get the best models available."

I stood there watching him spend money without blinking.

My thoughts drifted back to the time my own father had stayed with us. He had been given a five-foot pullout couch in the den.

According to Bruce, the guest room was his gaming room, filled with expensive custom-built computer equipment that couldn't be disturbed.

Bruce also went on a shopping spree for luxury supplements: premium vitamins, collagen powder, expensive ginseng, royal jelly, and anything else he could find that promised to improve Thomas's health.

Soon, our refrigerator was so packed with supplements and health products that there was barely room for food.

Then he spent nearly half an hour examining an expensive cooker before finally handing it to me.

"I've read the manual," he said. "Starting tomorrow morning, I want you to make Thomas a pot of broth every day. Let it simmer on low for three hours. That way, none of the nutrients will be lost."

I took the pot from him without saying a word.