Chapter 4

Callie

The corridors smelled like antiseptic and artificial lemon. My shoes squeaked against the polished linoleum floors as I rushed past the front desk, not bothering to check in.

I knew the room he was in. Room 207.

My chest was tight. I held my breath as I turned the corner, expecting the worst.

But when I walked in, my father was still alive. Still here. Still unconscious.

His chest rose and fell slowly, machines blinking steadily beside him. I froze in the doorway, my heart slowly peeling itself off the walls of my ribcage. Relief didn’t come the way I thought it would—it felt more like dread, confusion, then sadness.

I sat beside him, my hands shaking as I reached for his.

“Hey, Dad,” I whispered, forcing a smile that felt too fake; it was more out of despair than real happiness. “You scared me.”

I glanced at the IV bag, the monitors, and the faded quilt I’d brought from home, folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Nothing looked wrong. Nothing looked urgent.

So why had the nurses called me like he was dying?

I swallowed, leaning forward to brush his hair back from his forehead. “You’re not allowed to go yet. You hear me? You haven’t even tasted the cookies I’ve been working on. I got the temperature right last week, remember?”

A single tear dropped on his arm, but he couldn’t feel it; he didn’t move.

“I know I haven’t told you everything, and I’m sorry I haven’t been visiting often enough,” I continued, voice barely audible. “There’s this guy. Damien. He’s kind. Smart. Makes me laugh when I forget how. You’d like him if you met him. I don’t know what we are yet, but—”

The door creaked behind me.

I turned, hoping maybe it was a nurse.

It wasn’t.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, arms folded in that expensive-looking, tailored black coat, her hair pulled into a precise bun that didn’t dare move. Her lipstick was too perfect. She wore a pair of sunglasses that covered almost half of her face.

And next to her stood another woman.

Blonde, poised, expensive from head to heel. She held a modest clutch like it were a statement. Her smile was soft, eyes dripping with false concern. She looked like she was trying so hard to look angelic, but was failing at it.

“Well,” Eleanor said, stepping into the room like she owned it. “Look at you. The perfect devoted daughter. It’s touching.”

“What are you doing here?” I stood immediately, my spine stiff.

“I just wanted to see for myself what Damien’s little rebellion looks like up close.”

Ava looked around, lips pursed in a polite frown. “It’s sweet, really. How much you care for your father. He’s lucky.”

I ignored her. My eyes didn’t leave Eleanor. “What did you do?”

Eleanor tilted her head. “You didn’t figure it out? I asked the nurses to give you a call. I thought you deserved a heads-up.”

My mouth went dry. “You used him? To get to me?” What kind of person was she? It seemed like she had endless resources at her fingertips. How could she know so much about me?

“Loosely speaking,” she said, examining her manicure. “I just nudged a few things around. Told them it was urgent. You needed to come. And you did.”

“You had them lie?”

“No,” she said calmly. “I created the right conditions for truth to flourish.”

I took a step forward. “Get out.”

“Oh, Callie,” she said, smile sharpening like broken glass. “You poor, poor girl. Still clinging to the idea that love will conquer all?”

She walked around the bed slowly, eyes on my father like she was inspecting a slab of meat.

“What do you want? Who is she?” I demanded.

“Same thing I wanted last time. Except this time I won’t be offering you money.” She ignored my other question. I looked at the other woman closely, trying to piece any resemblance she had to Damien, but there was none. Maybe they weren’t related.

She stepped closer, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “We’re not trying to hurt you. We just want what’s best for Damien. And you’re… not.”

Eleanor added, “You’re a distraction. A charity case he picked up during whatever phase he’s in. But phases end. And Damien—” she paused, glancing at her, “—he’s already spoken for.”

I blinked. “What?”

“They’re engaged,” Eleanor said simply, like it wasn’t the most violent sentence I’d ever heard. “Have been since last year. Quietly. Ava’s family has been a friend to ours for decades. She knows our world. You don’t.” Her name was Ava.

“That’s not true.” My voice cracked before I could stop it.

Eleanor smirked. “Isn’t it? Has he ever taken you to one of our homes? Mention any of his family? His real life?”

I clenched my fists, but she wasn’t done.

“If you don’t walk away,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper, “your father’s next call won’t be so… survivable. I can pull every ounce of funding from this place. Cut it out like rot. I could bury him under medical debt so fast it’ll make your little waitress's head spin.”

Ava touched her arm lightly, her brows furrowing in concern. “Eleanor…”

But Eleanor didn’t flinch. “I don’t like being disobeyed. Especially not by someone who was supposed to stay invisible.”

I couldn’t breathe. It felt like all the air had been vacuumed out of the room.

“You can’t—” I started.

“I can,” she said. “And I will.”

“Remember, his life is in your hands. If you were smart enough, you would’ve taken the money when you still had the chance.” She continued.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked to the door. Ava gave me a small, pitiful smile.

“I really am sorry,” she said. “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl.”

I wanted to slap her. But I didn’t.

They left.

I waited until the door clicked shut before I slid back into the chair beside my father’s bed. My hands gripped the edges of the seat, white-knuckled and trembling.

I didn’t cry right away. I sat there for seconds. Still. Cold.

Then it came quietly at first, like the soft sound of something breaking under pressure. Then harder. Hot, unrelenting tears carved tracks down my cheeks as I buried my face into the crook of my father’s blanket-covered shoulder.

I cried like the girl I hadn’t been in a long time.

And he didn’t stir.