Page 124 of Filthy Promises

“But you know who it is,” I press.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information, Ms. St. Clair. I’m sure you understand.”

I do understand. All too well.

There’s only one person in my life with the kind of money that could make this happen overnight. Only one person who knows about Mom’s situation and has a reason to care.

Vince.

“How much?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “How much did they pay?”

Another hesitation. “That’s also confidential. But I can assure you, your mother will receive the absolute best care possible. No expense spared.”

The relief is instant, overwhelming—a tsunami washing away the mountain of fear I’ve been carrying. Mom will get treatment. She has a chance. She might live.

But right behind that relief comes something darker. Something ugly.

How dare he?

How dare Vince swoop in and solve my problems like I’m some charity case? How dare he make this decision without talking to me? Without giving me a choice in how my own mother’s care is handled?

“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”

I realize I’ve been silent too long. “Yes. Sorry. This is a lot to process.”

“Of course. It’s wonderful news, but I understand it’s unexpected.”

Unexpecteddoesn’t begin to cover it.

“When can I tell my mother?” I ask.

“You can tell her immediately. I’ll be speaking with her later today to go over the treatment plan. We’d like to begin as soon as possible.”

I thank him, go through the motions of gratitude and logistics, but my mind is elsewhere.

After I hang up, I sit motionless on my sofa, staring at nothing, my emotions a tangled knot I can’t begin to unravel.

I should be overjoyed. My mother is getting the treatment she needs. The impossible problem has been solved. I didn’t have to beg, borrow, or steal to make it happen.

But instead of pure happiness, I feel… violated. Like something has been taken from me rather than given.

For my entire adult life, I’ve been the one to figure things out. To make the hard choices. The things I gave up defined me. Sex? Fun? Room to breathe? Not for me, thanks.

And Vince just erased that. With a phone call and a bank transfer, he stepped in and took over.

Worse, he did it anonymously. Didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. No, he went behind my back, making decisions about my life, my mother, without even giving me the dignity of acknowledging what he was doing.

But even as anger burns through me, something else flickers alongside it.

Could this be lo?—?

I stamp that shit right out.

Because the truth—the awful, undeniable truth—is that I couldn’t have done this myself. I had no solution. Mom would have refused the treatment, and I’d have watched her die, knowing there was something that could have saved her but was forever out of reach.

Vince changed that. Whatever his motives, whatever his methods, he gave my mother a chance at life.

How do I reconcile that with my anger? How do I hold onto my pride when it feels so selfish in the face of Mom’s survival?

---