Page 118 of Filthy Promises

Then I’m in the backseat of his obscenely luxurious car, surrounded by the scent of leather and his cologne, hurtling through Manhattan traffic toward the hospital.

The journey is a blur. I stare out the window but see nothing. The city could be on fire and I wouldn’t notice. My mind is too busy spiraling, calculating, panicking.

I could sell my apartment—if I owned it, which I don’t, so that’s useless. I could beg my absent father for money—except I haven’t seen him since the day I was born and have no idea where he is. I could rob a bank—but I’m five-foot-four and couldn’t intimidate a hamster, let alone a security guard.

Which leaves… what?

The car pulls up to the hospital entrance, and I mumble a thank you to the driver before stumbling out.

The automatic doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with that familiar hospital stench. I don’t think there’s anything on this planetI hate more than the hell-brewed antiseptic they use in these places.

Mom’s ward is on the fourth floor. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the physical exertion to burn off some of my frantic energy.

By the time I reach her room, I’ve composed myself. Or at least I’ve forced my face into something that doesn’t scream “your daughter is falling apart.”

I knock softly on the door frame.

“There’s my girl!” Mom’s voice is weaker than the last time I visited, but her smile is as bright as ever. She’s propped up against pillows, a colorful scarf covering her hair loss. The TV is muted, some game show playing silently in the background.

“Hey, Mom.” I cross the room and kiss her forehead, trying not to wince at how paper-thin and fragile her skin feels under my lips. “How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, you know. Like a million bucks. Just… after taxes.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit. Tell me what brings you here in the middle of a workday. Did you finally get fired for making eyes at that handsome boss of yours?”

“Mom!” Even now, she can make me blush. If she only knew. “I just missed you, that’s all.”

She narrows her eyes, studying my face with the precision of someone who’s known me my entire life. “Dr. Patel called you, didn’t he?”

I look away. “Maybe.”

“And told you about the fancy new treatment.”

“Mom—”

“And the ridiculous cost.”

I sigh, defeated. “Yes.”

She takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cold, the skin translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface. “Sweetheart, we’ve had this conversation. I’ve made my peace with?—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt, an edge of desperation in my voice. “Please don’t say you’re okay with dying when there’s still a chance of beating this thing.”

“A very small chance,” she corrects gently. “At a very big price.”

“I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“Rowan Elizabeth.” She squeezes my hand with surprising strength. “Look at me.”

I do, though it takes every ounce of will I possess not to crumble.

“You have been taking care of me since you were a child,” she says. “You have put your life on hold, worked jobs you hated, sacrificed everything to keep me going. And I love you more than words can express for it.”

“Mom, please?—”

“But I won’t let you destroy yourself for a treatment that might buy me a few extra months, at best.”

“Forty-three percent remission rate,” I argue. “That’s not nothing.”

“It’s also not a guarantee.” She gently touches my cheek. “And even if it worked, what then? More treatments? More debt? More of you putting your life on hold?”

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