Page 17 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“I understand,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I'll figure something out.”
Dr. Whitman nodded, professional compassion mixing with helplessness. We both knew the obscene mathematics of modern healthcare—lives quantified in pounds and pence, healing rationed according to spreadsheets rather than need.
“I'll continue pushing the appeal,” he promised. “And I'll look into any charitable foundations that might help bridge the gap.” We both knew such efforts rarely succeeded in time to make a difference, but the pretence of hope was a courtesy extended between professionals.
I thanked him and left, the weight of Isabelle's prognosis settling across my shoulders like a physical burden. The decision I'd begun to make at dawn now crystallised into certainty. Whatever Calloway wanted, whatever moral compromises awaited, I would accept them. Isabelle's life was non-negotiable.
My lunch breaktook me to the hospital chapel, not for prayer but for solitude. The small, non-denominational space offered quiet absent from the rest of the hospital, its simple wooden pews and abstract stained glass creating an atmosphere of contemplation without specific religious demands. I wasn't seeking divine intervention—experience had taught me that gods, if they existed, remained notably absent from hospital wards.
I sat in the back row, head in my hands, allowing myself a moment of unguarded despair before I needed to reassemble my professional demeanour.
“I heard you treated Adrian Calloway last night,” a familiar voice said, interrupting my thoughts. Jonathan slid into the pew beside me uninvited, his casual tone contrasting with the tension evident in his shoulders. His usually immaculate appearance showed signs of strain—tie slightly askew, dark circles beneath his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as I had.
My pulse quickened, though I kept my expression neutral. “Patient confidentiality, Jon. You know I can't discuss cases.” I stood to leave, uncomfortable with the direction of conversation and too exhausted to navigate it skilfully.
“This isn't about medical records,” Jonathan countered, reaching out to grab my wrist as I attempted to pass. His grip was surprisingly firm, his normally friendly expression replaced with genuine concern. “My cousin at Scotland Yard says that name comes up in organised crime investigations. Serious ones, Noah. Murder, extortion, trafficking. These aren't people you want to get involved with.”
The accuracy of Jonathan's assessment felt like an accusation, hitting uncomfortably close to the conclusions I'd reached during my late-night research. The mention of murder conjured images of blood being cleaned from hospital floors, of the mysterious fate of James Wilson after Calloway's security team “handled” him.
“Whatever they've offered you,” Jonathan continued, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper, “it's not worth it. I saw how he looked at you. I know things are difficult with Isabelle's treatment costs, but there are other options.”
I extracted my wrist from his grip, a flash of anger cutting through my exhaustion. “Like what, exactly? Another fundraiser that barely covers a week of medication? More appeals to insurance companies who've already decided her life isn't cost-effective? Please, enlighten me about these magical other options, because I've spent two years looking for them.”
Jonathan recoiled slightly at my vehemence, genuine hurt flashing across his features. “I'm trying to help, Noah. I care about you. About Isabelle too.”
The anger drained as quickly as it had flared, leaving only bone-deep weariness. “I appreciate the concern,” I replied more gently, “but you don't need to worry about me. I know what I'm doing.”
The lie sat heavy between us as I walked away, Jonathan's troubled gaze following me down the chapel aisle. The truth was I had no idea what I was doing, only that I would do whatever became necessary to keep my sister alive. The moral calculus was simple, even as the potential consequences remained frighteningly unclear.
I visited Isabelle after my shift ended, finding her room transformed by new artwork tacked to every available surface. Vibrant landscapes contrasted with darker, more abstract pieces reflecting her experience with illness. The explosion of creativity stood in stark contrast to the sterile hospital environment, a rebellion of colour and imagination against clinical constraints.
“Noah!” she exclaimed, looking up from her sketch pad with genuine delight. Her cheeks showed more colour than I'd seen in weeks, her eyes bright with excitement rather than fever. “Look at all this. Can you believe it?”
I examined the nearest pieces, genuinely impressed by her technical skill and emotional depth. Isabelle had always been artistic, but her illness had somehow refined her talent, focusing it into something extraordinary.
“What brought this on?” I asked, carefully moving a stack of completed works to sit beside her bed.
“The gallery owner came by this morning,” she explained excitedly, gesturing to her work with charcoal-stained fingers. “Christina Harlow. She owns that new galleryin Shoreditch. She thinks my 'medical surrealism' series has commercial potential!” Isabelle's enthusiasm was infectious, her thin face animated with more energy than I'd seen in months. “She's offering a small showing next month!”
“That's brilliant, Izzy,” I said, genuine pride momentarily overshadowing my anxiety about tomorrow's meeting. “Proper posh, having your own gallery showing.”
“She called my work 'viscerally authentic,'” Isabelle continued, practically bouncing with excitement. “Said it captures the patient experience in a way that makes people uncomfortable but unable to look away.”
I examined a particularly striking piece—a figure drowning in medical tubes that somehow still reached toward light. The technical skill was impressive, but it was the emotional punch that made the piece extraordinary. I could feel the suffocation, the desperate struggle for breath, yet also the stubborn refusal to surrender.
“This is incredible,” I said softly. “You've really found your voice.”
Isabelle's smile faltered slightly. “It helps, you know. Making something beautiful out of all this.” She gestured vaguely toward her IV lines, the monitors, the medical paraphernalia that had defined our lives for too long. “Makes it feel like it wasn't all for nothing.”
The statement hit me with unexpected force. My sister had always been the optimist between us, finding silver linings where I saw only gathering storms. Even now, facing uncertain survival, she created beauty from suffering.
“I've been thinking,” she said hesitantly, setting aside her sketchbook. “About what happens if insurance denies the next treatment phase.” Her fingers twisted in the hospital blanket, a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. “Maybe it's time to accept that?—”
“That's not happening,” I cut her off immediately, taking her thin hand in mine. The bones felt fragile beneath paper-thin skin, a physical reminder of how precarious her recovery remained. “Your treatment continues, no matter what. I'm handling it.”
The fierce certainty in my voice surprised even me. In that moment, any lingering doubts about my decision vanished completely. I would accept whatever Calloway proposed tomorrow. Whatever price he demanded, I would pay it.
“Noah,” Isabelle said softly, studying my face with the perceptiveness that had always seen through my attempts at reassurance, “what are you not telling me?”
