Marjorie found me in the back office an hour later, staring at spreadsheets that all said the same thing.We’re drowning.We’re drowning.We’re drowning.
“Child.”Her voice was soft.She’d been calling me that since I was six years old, trailing after her through the apartment while she supervised the housekeeping staff.“You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”She set a plate in front of me.Grilled cheese and tomato soup, the same thing she used to make me when I was sick.The smell hit my stomach and I realized I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
I took a bite.Then another.Marjorie settled into the chair across from me, watching with the quiet patience of a woman who’d seen three generations of Hughes family drama.
“Your mother used to do this too,” she said.“Work herself sick instead of asking for help.”
I wanted to ask what she meant.My mother had died in a skiing accident when I was four.That was the story I’d always been told.But sometimes I caught hints of something else.Shadows in the way people talked about her.
“She would be so proud of you,” Marjorie said.“Fighting like this.Not giving up.”
“I don’t feel like I’m fighting.I feel like I’m drowning.”
“That’s what fighting feels like sometimes.”She reached across the desk and squeezed my hand.“You’re stronger than you know, Lena.Your mother knew that.I know it too.”
I wanted to believe her.I really did.
The hospital that night felt emptier than usual.The corridors stretched long and silent, lit by the flickering glow of fluorescent lights.I walked the familiar path to my father’s room without thinking, my feet carrying me to the only parent I had left.
The antiseptic smell hit me first.Three weeks and I still wasn’t used to it.Couldn’t separate it from the memory of the night they’d called me, the night I’d run through these same hallways not knowing if he’d be alive when I got there.
He looked the same.Pale.Still.The ventilator pushed air into his lungs with mechanical precision.The monitors beeped their steady rhythm, marking time that meant nothing to either of us.His face had gone slack in a way that made him look older.Smaller.Like the stroke had stolen not just his consciousness but some essential part of who he was.
I sat beside him and took his hand.Cold, like always.His fingers didn’t curl around mine the way they used to when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.
“I got my tuition bill today,” I told him.“Forty-two thousand dollars.I don’t even know if you already paid it or if I’m supposed to.”I laughed, but it came out broken.“I’m not going, obviously.Can’t exactly leave the hotel to attend freshman orientation.”
The ventilator hissed.The monitors beeped.Outside the window, the sun had set and the mountains were just dark shapes against a darker sky.
“I don’t know what to do, Papa.I’ve tried everything.I’ve cut costs and increased revenue and renegotiated every contract I could find.It’s not enough.It’s never going to be enough.”My voice cracked.“The payment is due in five days and I don’t have the money.I’ve already sold everything I can without people noticing.Mom’s jewelry.The first editions from your study.If I start selling the artwork in the lobby, word will get out.Our reputation will tank.We’ll lose the high-end clients and then we’ll really be finished.”
Silence.Of course silence.He couldn’t help me.Couldn’t wake up and fix everything the way he always used to.Couldn’t tell me which vendors to call, which favors to cash in, which corners to cut.
“There’s a man,” I whispered.“A billionaire.He offered to pay off our debt, but I know there’s a price.There’s always a price with men like him.”I squeezed my father’s hand, willing him to squeeze back.To open his eyes.To tell me I was wrong, that there was some secret fund I didn’t know about, some solution I’d missed.“I’m scared, Papa.I’m so scared.And I don’t have anyone to tell me what to do.”
He didn’t answer.He couldn’t.
I stayed until my back ached from the hard plastic chair.Until the night shift nurse came in to check his vitals and gave me that look, the one that was half pity and half gentle suggestion that I should go home and get some rest.
In the parking lot, my phone buzzed.Joe again.The third text this week.
Can we talk?I think I overreacted.I miss you.
I deleted it without responding.Whatever we’d had, it was over.I couldn’t imagine going back to that life.Dating a boy who proposed to me like he was closing a business deal.Pretending I was someone who cared about country clubs and vacation homes.
As I pulled my phone away, something fluttered to the ground.
The business card.It must have been tucked in my pocket, waiting.
I picked it up.The silver lettering caught the parking lot lights.Just his name.Raphael Antonov.And a phone number.
Three days of telling myself I wouldn’t call.Three days of pretending I had other options.
I was out of options.
