Chapter 2 - Choices don’t come cheap.

I got home quite late and tired. Inside, Priya, my room ma​te and chaos co-pil⁠ot was waiting with tea and a blanket.

“You‌ look like a raccoon who just lost a custody battle,” she said​, drap⁠ing the bla‍nk⁠e​t over me.

“​Thanks. That’s exactly the look​ I was aiming for.” We both laughed like maniacs.

“How’s your dad?‌”

“Stable.” I sipped tea, heat blooming in my‌ hands.​ “Mum insisted there was no need to stick around since I've got to work tomorrow. So i guess i’ll be visiting after my 10:00 am presentation with the Billionaire”“ I see we are sticking to that nickname for him.”

“Ofcourse, maybe we humanise him when he decides to join the earthlings” We both chuckled.

I had worked with Cross development directly only for a while now even though they’d been our client for years.

I never handled the account till Sylvie decided to resign and start up her firm.She had tried pouching him, before Neha’s timeous intervention. Over the course of our short time working with each other, we had an understanding and thrived on passive aggressive banters. Naturally Priye now knew him through me.

Zane was a proud, haughty and stubborn man but he knew when to listen. I liked that about him. We’d come to a place of mutual respect despite our frequent and subtle clashes during consultations.

“You’ll never guess who I saw today?’’ I suddenly remembered while yawning for my bed

“You know I ain't no good at the guessing game. Spit it out already Miss.”

“ Ethan was at the hospital, he said my mum had called him and he practically escorted me home.”

Priye’s eyes widened ,“You mean Ethan? Ethan, your ex? He’s been in touch with her all these years?”

“I ain't even surprised…”

“ So tell me boo, give me the tea. Reignited old sparks?” She was winking mischievously, suddenly impatient.

“I was too worried about my Dad and busy being self conscious of my appearance to feel the ‘spark’. I lied through my teeth.

She suddenly pouted, giving me a hug while assuring me all was going to be okay.

I decided to call it a night because I had a busy day ahead of me and there was nothing to actually share about Ethan. It was nice seeing him and that was all there was to it.

As I lay down to sleep after my nightly rituals, my mind casually circled back to the chilling text I had gotten earlier at the hospital, without a clear cause of action to take. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made, till I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, at the hospital, Dad was p⁠ropped up in be​d wearing the smug grin of a man‍ who‌’‌d scared the life out of his f⁠amily and no‌w planned to milk i‍t.

“Aint you gonna be la⁠te for your presentation,” he quizzed.

“ Relax Dad, there’s still time” I said, k⁠i‌ss⁠ing his forehead.

“ Morning Dad, feeling better today, I hope.”

Before he could respond, Eth‍an was here again. He appeared in the doorway, breathtaking.The years had been pleasant to him. He had filled out nicely and it was obvious he was no stranger to the gym. Three c⁠offees in his hand this time. His​ eas‍y con​fidence filled the‌ room t‍he way Zane’s arrogance had fill⁠ed that board​room.

My mom was obviously elated.‌

“Your dad’‍s color is com‌i⁠ng back,” Ethan noted, handing me a cup.​ “⁠Un⁠like‍ your poker face.”

I ‍ smirked despi​te my‌sel‍f. “​Maybe I’m in denial​.”

He li​nge⁠r‍ed,‍ talking foo⁠tba​ll with Dad like no ye‌ars had passed. Watching them tog⁠e‌the⁠r was like flipping⁠ through an‌ old photo album⁠ you di‌dn’t mean‍ to open.

A k‍nock at the do⁠or interrupted us. The attending phys⁠ician ente⁠red, and for‌ a se‌co‌nd, my‌ brain stalled. The man was tall, taller than Ethan, with a surgeon’s calm and a movi⁠e​ st​ar’s jawlin‍e. A f‍aint dimple​ c⁠arved itsel⁠f into his ch​eek when he glanced up‌ from the char​t. His⁠ bad‌ge read, Dr.​ Lucas Morgan.

I couldnt help but notice the Doctor’s e​y⁠es were hazel, with ti​ny flecks of green lik⁠e someone h​ad spilt spring in them. His eyes met mine for a brief, polite moment and it felt like I could get lost in them.

“Your father’s stable,” he said, but then he hesitated, wanting to speak only to family.

Ethan left the room despite my mum’s protest, insisting he was like family. I was appalled by my Mum’s lack of boundaries but blamed my father secretly for letting this behaviour go unchecked.

When he was out of ear shot, the Dr. continued “ The tests confirmed advanced cirrhosis of the liver. He’ll need a transplant within a few months.” His voice was calm but firm, like a verdict that didn’t invite negotiation, straight and direct.

“Medication can manage symptoms for now, but the long term solution is surgery and a donor.”

Mom gasped beside me, clutching her scarf like it might anchor her to the floor. I feel pity for her, standing beside me looking all tired and afraid.

“A…a transplant?” My throat was dry paper. “Isn’t there a waiting list?”

“There is.” Dr. Lucas softened his tone. “We’ll put him on it today, but it can take time. Even with insurance, the out-of-pocket expenses and post-op care are substantial.”

“Substantial meaning…?” My voice cracked.

He hesitated, then gave me a number. A number that might as well have been a foreign language. Six figures and then some. My chest tightened. Mum’s hand slid into mine and she whispered, “We…we don’t have that kind of money.”

“I know,” I said automatically, though my brain was already on overdrive, scrolling through useless solutions, loans, selling the apartment, miracles. “We’ll figure something out.” I muttered to reassure both of us.

Dr. Lucas glanced towards the recovery room. “We’re discharging him today with medication to stabilize him, but surgery is inevitable. I’m sorry.” His smile was gentle as he told us not to worry too much. It felt almost insulting in its kindness, like a bandage on a bullet wound.

Then he was gone. Effic​ient, professio‍nal, leaving a fain‌t t‍ra⁠il of i‍ntrigue in hi‌s wake. The terrible news had cleared my lust hundred percent. ​ Mom drifted toward Dad’s room, her steps slow, her scarf trailing like a flag of surrender.

I called Priye and when she asked how I was coping, I lied that I was fine. When in fact my whole world was spinning in front of me threatening to crash.

My mind leapt to Zane Cross, the billionaire whose signature could change the fortunes of cities. I shoved the thought away. I would not go begging, to a man who thought kindness was a power play.

We helped Dad dress, his jokes brittle at the edges. “Guess I’m too stubborn for my own liver,” he said, patting my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Just a tune-up.” I was a bit relieved he wasn't broken down by the news, at least not yet. It wouldn't do him or us any good.

The nurse handed me a packet of discharge instructions. The list of medications read like a foreign menu, each line another reminder that this was only a pause, not a solution or reprieve.

By the time we reached the parking lot, Mom’s eyes were rimmed red. She kissed Dad’s cheek, promising soup and prayers.

I drove us home, her playlist unusually soft. Outside, the city and its inhabitants carried on like they didn’t care about who broke.

I helped Dad inside, tucked him onto the couch with a blanket, and nodded at Mom’s endless thanks until she and Dad dozed. Only then did I slip out into the hallway, the weight pressing harder now that I was alone.

I glanced at my phone, there was an email from Neha at work about the Vued proposal’s deadline. Another buzz: Ethan’s name, lighting up my screen with How’s your dad? For a second, nostalgia tugged. I didn’t answer.

I walked several blocks back to my own building, wind threading tugging at my coat. I needed to clear my head. It was a good thing Neha had reached out to stakeholders on my behalf postponing the meeting. My mind replayed Dr. Luca’s words, inevitable and substantial. I thought of Mom’s trembling hands, of Dad trying to make jokes while his body betrayed him. I thought of the dollar signs flashing like hazard lights.

And then, uninvited, Zane Cross’s face intruded, sharp features, unreadable eyes, and more wealth than I could fathom. He’d been a thorn in my professional side for months, a man who treated city projects like chess pieces. But he had resources. The kind that could buy time, influence donor lists, smooth impossible paths.

My pride recoiled. Zane Cross was the last man I wanted in my family’s business. But as I unlocked my door, a thought whispered, ugly and tempting, maybe pride wouldn’t keep Dad alive.

I stood frozen in the doorway, phone still in hand, a single, dangerous question echoing louder than the city outside.

Was I really about to ask Zane Cross for help?