Chapter 4

The more I spoke, the more pathetic our marriage seemed.

"To avoid any hint of scandal, you left me to rot in that laundry, my hands soaked in chemicals. Over the years, I've had my skin burned by chemicals, my arms scalded by boiling water, my knees cracked from the winter cold blowing through a broken window. And I never said a word of complaint."

"Because I was your wife. I had to protect your precious reputation."

"But this time, I won't stand by and watch my son die!"

"He's only ten years old! His life hasn't even begun! Because he's Dean's son, he has to be last in line for medicine? Because his father wants to look selfless, my son is the one who has to be sacrificed?"

"I've given up on your power, on your resources. I'm just begging you, stop using our lives as paving stones on your way to the top!"

Perhaps startled by our argument, the small, hot body in my arms began to convulse violently.

Dean's gaze fell on our son's flushed face, then moved down, settling on my old, rain-soaked coat, stained with gutter filth, and my ruined hands.

His expression flickered. The arms that had held me captive a moment ago went limp.

I practically shoved past him, rushing into the emergency room with Lucas.

Doctors and nurses immediately swarmed around us.

Oxygen, stethoscope, an emergency injection...

After a whirlwind of activity, the attending physician removed his mask, his expression grave.

"We've stabilized his vitals for now. But his underlying condition is severe. His previous treatments were just cheap drugs to delay the inevitable. The high fever has caused a cerebral complication. It's extremely dangerous. It's anyone's guess if he'll make it through the night."

My mind went blank. I nearly slid down the wall.

Numbly, I held Lucas, wrapped in a blanket, and prepared to spend the night on a bench in the noisy emergency room corridor.

This was the Family's private hospital. The VIP floor was always empty, always reserved. Not for us. I knew I didn't qualify.

Just then, a nurse hurried after me. "Ma'am, the Boss just signed the papers. He's arranged a private room for the boy on the VIP floor. Please, come with me."

A VIP room? He signed for it?

My heart, long turned to ice, gave a traitorous leap.

Had he finally, for once, been willing to break a rule for us?

I followed the nurse to a room at the end of the top-floor corridor. I pushed the door open, and the scene inside was a slap in the face.

Dean was sitting by the bedside, softly coaxing the child in the bed to sleep. Hazel stood nearby, handing him a small glass of bourbon.

They both looked up at the sound of the door opening.

When Dean saw me, a look of shock crossed his face. "What are you doing up here?"

The nurse who brought me froze, stammering an explanation. "Boss, the VIP room you signed for... I thought it was for your own son..."

His expression turned impossibly dark.

After a moment, he stood up, walked over to me, and explained in a low voice.

"This was the last room in the hospital's secure wing. Lucas has a fever. Hazel's son had an acute asthma attack. He can't be disturbed. You've always been so understanding. Surely you can understand."

The tiny flame that had just sparked in my heart was doused by his words, utterly extinguished.

I nodded numbly, too tired to argue, and turned to leave with my son in my arms.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard his softened voice from behind me.

"Hazel, you get some rest tonight. Don't worry about a thing. First thing tomorrow, I'll arrange the convoy. I've taken care of everything at the compound. Once you're there, I'll find the best specialists to look after the boy."

Expressionless, I shifted the weight of my son, hot as a furnace in my arms, and walked back toward the noisy emergency room corridor downstairs without a backward glance.

I sat the entire night on a hard plastic bench, holding my son, listening to his shallow breaths as the sun came up.

The next morning, the main intersection of the Family's territory was buzzing like it was a holiday.

A line of widows and family members who had received a spot in the compound stood surrounded by bodyguards, their faces beaming with the relief of finally escaping the slums.

Dean, dressed in a black trench coat, stood at the front, his deep-set eyes scanning the crowd, but he couldn't find me.

An inexplicable emptiness settled in his gut.

He waved over the foreman from the slums and tossed a thick envelope of cash into his hands.

"Get this to Olivia. Tell her to get the kid whatever he needs. The best doctors, anything."

"And tell her, on the very next convoy, I'm coming to get her myself."

With that, he turned, his expression resolute, and settled into the back seat of the lead car.

As the convoy pulled away, someone in the front seat turned on the stereo. The sound of an Italian opera mixed with the low laughter of his men filled the car.

Dean leaned back against the leather seat and hummed along for a moment.

Just then, in the opposite lane, a white bus with a church cross painted on it, bearing the words "Community Relief Volunteers" on its side, slowly drove past.

He paid it no mind, basking in his men's flattery.

He had no idea that at that exact moment, I was on that church bus, heading toward a lawless, war torn borough, my head against the window, watching his convoy pass by, one car after another.

And so, I was gone.