And I could still hear myself answering,You don’t have to. I do.
My phone buzzed.
Rowan:Teller in 30.
I sat.
Straightened the folder stacks I didn’t need straightening and waited.
Dr. Teller didn’t bother with pleasantries. He walked in with the same calm competence he’d brought to the hospital room,white coat replaced by a dark suit, eyes sharp behind steel-framed glasses.
“Julian,” he said. “Rowan.”
“Teller,” I replied.
He sat without being invited, a scowl on his face.
“What you did,” he began, “was… excessive.”
“It was necessary,” I said.
He exhaled slowly and pulled at his coat sleeves before looking at me. “She’s not your spouse. Not your family. Not your...”
“I know what she is,” I cut in.
His gaze narrowed. “Do you?”
I gave him a grin that was more of a warning than anything else, "I don't see how my relationship with Lucy is your concern."
Dr. Teller leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“Her mother’s condition is complicated,” he said. “You can’t buy your way out of autoimmune disease.”
“No,” I said evenly. “But I can buy access. Time. Consistency. A standard of care she’s never been able to afford.”
Teller’s jaw worked once, like he didn’t like agreeing with me.
“The inpatient program you’re thinking about,” he said, “isn’t a guarantee. It’s intensive. It’s experimental. It’s structured for patients who can comply and benefit.”
“She can,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I replied, and the certainty in my voice surprised even me. “Her daughter has kept her alive on spreadsheets and determination for years. Compliance isn’t the question. Access is.”
Teller held my gaze for a long moment, then he sat back, tapping his fingers once against his knee.
“The trial Lucy’s been chasing,” he said, “may not be the right fit.”
My body went still.
“Explain,” I said.
“It’s selective,” Teller continued. “It’s designed for specific profiles. Her mother’s flare pattern, her organ involvement… she may not qualify.”
I felt something sharp and ugly push up inside me.
Not disappointment.
