Page 121 of Filthy Promises

The nurse frowns. “Are you family?”

“Business associate,” I reply smoothly, producing a business card. “It’s regarding the financial arrangements for her treatment.”

The professional card with the Akopov Industries logo works its magic. Healthcare runs on money in this country, and everyone knows it.

“I’ll page him,” she says.

I take a seat in the small waiting area, positioned with a clear view of Room 412. Through the partially open door, I can seeRowan sitting on the edge of a bed, her head bowed as she speaks to someone I can’t quite see. Her mother, I presume.

Dr. Patel arrives five minutes later. He’s a harried-looking man with thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and bags under his eyes.

“Mr. Akopov?” He extends his hand. “I’m not sure I understand?—”

“Let’s speak privately,” I suggest, gesturing to an empty consultation room I noticed earlier.

Once inside with the door closed, I get straight to the point. “I understand Margaret St. Clair needs an experimental treatment that her insurance won’t cover.”

He blinks, taken aback. “I… er, yes, that’s correct. But patient confidentiality prevents me from?—”

“I’ll be covering the costs,” I interrupt. “All of them. Whatever she needs.”

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Mr. Akopov, we’re talking about a very expensive protocol. The initial course alone is?—”

I pull out my phone and transfer an amount that makes his eyes widen. “Consider that a down payment. There will be more as needed.”

Dr. Patel stares at the confirmation message on his phone. “I… I don’t understand. What is your relationship to the patient?”

“Her daughter works for me,” I say, as if that explains everything.

Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. I’m not entirely sure myself.

“This is very generous, but Ms. St. Clair—the younger Ms. St. Clair—was just saying they couldn’t possibly afford?—”

“She doesn’t need to know where the money came from,” I cut in. “In fact, I insist on anonymity.”

His brow furrows. “That’s unusual?—”

I step closer, using my height to its full advantage. “Anonymous donors fund medical treatments all the time. This will be no different.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. “I suppose the hospital can inform them that a donor has stepped forward. It does happen… occasionally.”

“Good.” I hand him my private card. “Call this number if anything else is needed. Anything at all.”

“Mr. Akopov—” he hesitates. “May I ask why? If you don’t want recognition?—”

“No, you may not,” I reply. “Just make sure she gets everything she needs. The best care possible.”

“Of course.” He tucks the card away. “I’ll speak with the family today.”

“Not today,” I correct him. “Give it a day or two. Let her daughter come to terms with the situation first.”

He looks puzzled but agrees. “As you wish.”

I leave him with final instructions and make my way back toward the elevators, careful to avoid passing Room 412.

I don’t want Rowan to see me here.

I don’t want her to know I’m doing this.

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