“Yeah, I saw that Pulitzer-worthy journalism already,” I grumble back at Killian’s fuming figure. “Thinking of suing for libel.”
“And that’s gonna make us look even better, right?” Sarcasm drips from him as he slaps another paper on my desk. “Your bullshit’s cost us the Midtown project. Permits gone, thanks to some legal crap we’re now neck-deep in. Build’s on ice.”
Fuck. My chest tightens with gutting disappointment. We’ve sunk a year of hard work into that build, and now it’s in limbo because I couldn’t keep my personal life from turning into a tabloid headline.
“Top marks, Connor,” I silently chastise myself, picturing the demoralized faces of our crew. Our teams pour their blood, sweat, and tears into our ventures.
I’ve failed Killian and our crew.
I can’t even get properly angry. That’s a luxury I forfeited the moment I gave Willow carte blanche to drag my name through the mud when I ended our charade.
And to top it off, I’ve got the enviable job of convincing my niece and mom—who already see me as the screw-up thanks to recent drama—that I don’t actually spend weekends preying on vulnerable women.
Killian’s eyes flash. “Last strike, Connor.”
“Last strike? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “And hopefully it’ll work. Get your shit together.”
He storms out, door rattling the frame.
No way in hell am I telling him about my diagnosis. Not yet. Lexi might think confiding in family is best, but as much as Killian is the protective big brother, he’s also the majority stakeholder in our company. As demonstrated here by that show of dominance.
Killian’s the kind to mandate a time-out masqueraded as a long vacation, which is the exact opposite of what I need.
???
“You want to fully fund an entire research department devoted solely to Autoimmune Inner Ear Disease?” Dr. Hayes repeats incredulously over the phone.
Yeah, he thinks I’ve lost my mind, or have too much cash for my own good. Maybe both apply here.
Truth is I’m fucking desperate. The moment those words hit me—lifelong condition; no permanent cure yet—pragmatism didn’t stand a chance.
Because I’ll be damned if I surrender autonomy over my own body on some labcoat’s defeated timetable. I need to regain control over my life, and this is the only way I know how. I’ll hand the man a blank check.
“That’s right,” I state firmly. “My team will iron out the specifics and get it all down in writing. But to cut to the chase, yes—I’ll fully finance and equip a dedicated team aimed solely at pioneering treatments for AIED.”
Hayes responds with a series of spluttering noises, probably toggling between astonishment and the idea that he’s the butt of some high-budget prank.
I barrel through any objections. “In return, I’ll cover your clinic’s full operating budget yearly. Crunch the numbers and get back to me.”
I’ll funnel capital into this until we have a cure. If modern medicine lacks solutions, then by god, I’ll buy the future if that’s what it takes.
???
“Hey,” Lexi greets me, her smile cutting through the crap of the day.
The moment I see those eyes, the edges soften on everything—the fight with Killian, the senator screwing us, the endless clinic calls and work squeezed into the chaos. It all fades into the background, losing its grip on me.
Fuck but I’ve missed her, and the revelation guts me.
And yeah, maybe it’s a sign that I’m leaning on her presence like a crutch these days. My head’s been split since she spent the night—one minute I’m shoving her away, the next I’m on her doorstep like a starved stray, pathetically grateful for any affection she offers.
It hasn’t even been a damn week and here I am, dragging myself out to Yonkers on a random Wednesday.
She pulls me into her apartment, and I do my best not to trip over the small mountain range of shoes by the door.
I hold back a curse as I notice a dozen things in her apartment that need fixing.
