The Chemo Chair

Pedri stares at his phone, Alessia's name glowing on the screen. He doesn't answer. He lets it ring until it stops. Then he shoves it back into his pocket.

"She can wait," he says. "You're more important right now."

Aitana blinks. In three years of marriage, Pedri has never once told her she is important. Not in words. Not in actions. The statement feels like a foreign language.

"Don't do that," she says quietly. "Don't pretend to care just because my father is dying."

His jaw tightens. "I'm not pretending."

"Then what are you doing, Pedri? What do you actually want from me?"

The question hangs between them, sharp as a blade. Pedri opens his mouth to answer, but before he can speak, a nurse emerges from the ICU. Her face is grim.

"Miss Bonmatí? The doctor needs to speak with you. It's about your father's condition."

Aitana's heart drops. "Is he—is he okay?"

The nurse hesitates. "Please come with me. The doctor will explain everything."

Pedri reaches for her hand. "I'll come with you."

She doesn't pull away. She lets him hold her hand as they follow the nurse down the corridor to a small consultation room. The doctor is already there, his white coat wrinkled, his eyes tired.

"Miss Bonmatí," he says, "your father's brain swelling has increased. We're monitoring him closely, but there's a possibility he may not regain consciousness. If he does, there may be significant cognitive damage."

Aitana feels the floor drop out from under her. "You're saying he might never wake up?"

"We can't be certain. But yes, it's a possibility. I'm sorry."

The room spins. Aitana grips Pedri's hand so tightly her knuckles turn white. She doesn't realize she's crying until she tastes salt on her lips.

"What do we do?" she whispers. "There has to be something. Surgery? Medication? Anything?"

The doctor shakes his head slowly. "At this stage, we can only wait and hope. The next seventy-two hours are critical."

Seventy-two hours. Three days to find out if her father will live or die. Three days to decide if she has anything left to fight for.

Pedri leads her out of the consultation room, his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him without thinking, too broken to resist. He guides her to a bench in the hospital courtyard, where the cold air bites their faces.

"You should go," she says, her voice hollow. "Alessia is waiting."

Pedri doesn't move. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't have to do this. I know you don't love me. I know this is all just guilt, or obligation, or whatever. But you don't have to stay."

He turns to face her. His eyes are dark, intense. "I'm not staying out of guilt."

"Then why?"

"Because for the first time in three years, I'm exactly where I want to be."

The words hit her like a wave. She doesn't know whether to believe him. She doesn't know whether to trust him. But she is too tired to fight.

"Then stay," she whispers. "But don't lie to me. Not about this."

"I won't."

They sit in silence, watching the sun sink behind the hospital towers. The cold seeps into Aitana's bones, but for the first time in a long time, she doesn't feel completely alone.

Chloe returns the next morning, as promised. She brings coffee and pastries, which Aitana cannot eat. She sits in the waiting area, quiet and watchful, offering silent support. Aitana does not speak to her, but she does not send her away either. Having her mother close feels like a wound that won't stop bleeding, but it is also something else—a reminder that she is not entirely alone in the world.

Three days later, Aitana sits in the chemotherapy chair.

The drugs burn as they enter her veins. She closes her eyes and breathes through the nausea. Keith is there, checking her vitals, speaking in soft, clinical tones. Pedri offered to come with her, but she told him to stay with her father. She can handle this alone.

She has to.

The first hour passes in a blur. She stares at the ceiling, counting the tiles. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. The drugs make her stomach churn. She swallows down the bile and keeps counting.

Then she hears the door open.

She doesn't look up. She assumes it's a nurse.

"Hello, Aitana."

The voice is soft, honeyed, and sharp as a blade. Aitana's eyes snap open.

Alessia Russo stands in the doorway.

She wears the emerald necklace. It glitters against her pale skin, catching the fluorescent light. Her white coat is draped over her arm. Her expression is calm, almost kind—but her eyes are cold.

"What are you doing here?" Aitana's voice is flat.

Alessia steps inside, closing the door behind her. She walks to the window, her heels clicking on the tile. She looks out at the city, then turns back with a soft smile.

"I wanted you to hear this from me directly," she says. "Pedri is mine. He has been mine since we were teenagers. You were just a placeholder—a punishment. When he comes home late, he's with me. When he smiles, it's for me."

Aitana doesn't move. She doesn't blink. The chemo burns in her veins, but this burns worse.

Alessia steps closer, until she's standing over the reclining chair. She looks down at Aitana with something that might be pity—if it weren't so satisfied.

"And when your treatment gets harder," Alessia continues, "he won't be here. He'll be with me and my son. The family he actually wants."

She reaches out and adjusts the emerald necklace, letting it catch the light. "He bought this for me last week. Did he tell you? No, of course not. He doesn't tell you anything, does he?"

Aitana's hands curl into fists on the armrests. "Get out."

Alessia smiles. "I'm not cruel, Aitana. I'm just telling you the truth so you can stop hoping. There's nothing left for you to hold onto."

She turns toward the door, then pauses. "Oh, and one more thing. I'm pregnant. The baby is Pedri's. I thought you should know before you waste any more of your precious time."

The words hit like a physical blow. Aitana's chest caves. Her lungs refuse to expand. The room spins.

Pregnant. Pedri's baby. The baby she could never give him.

Alessia watches her for a moment, satisfied, then walks out. The door clicks shut behind her.

Aitana sits alone in the sterile room, the chemo dripping into her arm, the word pregnant echoing in her skull. She doesn't cry. She doesn't scream. She just stares at the wall, her face pale and still as death.

But when she tries to stand, her legs give out. She collapses back into the chair, her body too weak to hold her. The chemo has drained everything from her—her strength, her hope, her will to fight.

When Keith comes back an hour later, he finds her exactly the same way—frozen, hollow, broken.

"Aitana?" He kneels beside her. "What happened?"

She turns her head slowly. Her eyes are empty.

"I need to see my father," she whispers. "Before it's too late."

Keith helps her stand, his hands gentle but firm. She leans on him, too weak to walk alone. He guides her to a wheelchair and pushes her through the corridors.

She doesn't know yet that her father has just been declared brain-dead. That the doctors are waiting to speak with her about removing life support. That the last anchor in her life has just snapped.

And she doesn't know that Pedri is on his way to the hospital right now—not for her, but because Alessia called him. Because Alessia told him she's pregnant.

And Pedri is coming to confirm it.