More silence.
I glance up and catch Bree watching me. Her fingers have stopped moving over the laptop. She’s studying me with those amber brown eyes like she’s seeing something the others miss.
I look away fast.
“Let’s table this,” Elspeth says diplomatically. “Paloma, send around revised options.”
The meeting ends. Everyone files out.
Bree stays behind, still typing.
Finally she looks up. Sees me waiting.
“Did you need something, Mr. Rossi?” she asks.
Yeah.
I need you to quit so I can stop torturing myself twelve hours a day.
“No,” I say.
She nods and gathers her things.
Goddamn it.
Friday evening everyoneelse has left. It’s just me and Bree and the distant sound of cleaning crew moving through the lower floors.
I should send her home. She’s been here twelve hours. But I don’t.
Instead I’m reviewing patient files from the Long Island City facility. The ones Yael sends over when my CTO wants me to remember why we do this work.
Case studies. Treatment outcomes. Photos that should probably require therapy to look at but I’ve built up enough scar tissueof my own.
Then I get to the letter.
It’s from a seven year old girl named Mia.
Dear Dr. Rossi,
Thank you for my new face. The other kids don’t stare anymore. My teacher says I’m brave but I think you’re braver because you help people even though you got hurt too. I saw your picture. Your scar is cool. Mine is too now.
Love, Mia.
I read it again.
Then a third time.
This.
This is why I built the company. Not for the board or the investors or the billion dollar valuation.
I set the letter down carefully.
When I look up, Bree is watching me through the glass walls.
Our eyes meet.
For half a second, maybe less, the masks slip.
