Page 116 of Filthy Promises

The room seems to tilt. “English, please, Dr. Patel.”

He sighs. “The cancer has spread more aggressively than we anticipated. Her liver function is declining, and there are new masses in her lungs.”

“But the treatment was working.” My voice cracks. “You said the numbers were improving.”

“It was. They were. But sometimes, cancer adapts.”

I close my eyes. Cancer adapts. Cancer evolves. Cancer finds a way. I’ve heard all the metaphors before, each one making this disease sound more like a supervillain than a collection of mutated cells.

“What are our options?” I ask, even though I already know the answer won’t be good.

“There’s an experimental protocol—immunotherapy combined with targeted radiation. It’s showing promising results in cases like your mother’s.”

“How promising?”

Dr. Patel pauses. “Forty-three percent remission rate in the initial trials.”

Not great. Not terrible. Just the same coin flip we’ve been gambling on for years now.

“And the cost?” I ask, bracing myself.

When he names the figure, I actually laugh. A short, bitter, bracing sound that has nothing whatsoever to do with humor.

“That’s more than I make in a year,” I tell him. “Even with my promotion.”

“I understand this is difficult, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice softens. “But without the treatment, your mother’s prognosis is… limited. Weeks, perhaps. A few months at most.”

The world narrows to a pinpoint. Weeks. Months. I knew this day would come eventually, but I thought we had more time. I thought the regular treatments were working. I thought?—

“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” I force myself back to the present. “When does she need to start?”

“As soon as possible. Ideally, within the next two weeks.”

“I’ll figure something out.” The words come automatically, the same promise I’ve been making since I was eleven years old.I’ll figure something out, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.

After more details and a few unhelpful platitudes, I hang up. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop my phone twice before managing to set it on my desk.

Two weeks to come up with a small fortune.

Impossible.

Even if I emptied my savings, sold everything I own, and maxed out every credit card I could get my hands on, I wouldn’t come close.

I could ask Vince for a loan. The thought bursts into my mind unwanted, unwelcome.

No. Absolutely not.

My relationship—if you can call it that, which you shouldn’t—with Vincent Akopov is already complicated enough without adding financial desperation to the mix.

Besides, what would I even say?Hey, remember all those times you fucked me silly? Could you maybe pay for my mom’s experimental cancer treatment in return?

God, just thinking it makes me feel sick.

I stare at my phone after hanging up with Dr. Patel. I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life implode. That can’t be my mother he’s talking about.

Except it is.

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