Chapter 51

“Well?” he asks when I approach. “Mission accomplished?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate.

“You know you’re acting weird as fuck, right?” he observes, falling into step beside me as we leave the hospital. “Following assistants to hospitals, throwing money at sick mothers… What’s next? Adopting puppies? Hand-feeding the homeless?”

“Shut up,” I growl.

“Just saying.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’ve never seen you like this over a woman before. It’s concerning.”

“I’m not ‘like this’ over her,” I snap. “I’m protecting an investment. She can’t work effectively if she’s distracted by her mother’s illness.”

We both know it’s a lie, but Arkady is smart enough not to call me on it. At least not directly.

“Right. An investment.” He grins. “One you’re fucking on every available surface.”

I shoot him a look that would make most men piss themselves. He just laughs.

“Fine, keep your secrets.” He claps me on the shoulder. “But whatever this is? It’s changing you.”

I shake his hand off. “Nothing’s changing.”

But as I slide into my car, I know that isn’t true. Something is changing. I’m changing.

I think about Rowan’s face when she got that call. The naked fear in her eyes. The weight she’s been carrying alone.

And I think about how, for the first time in my life, I’ve gone out of my way to lift someone else’s burden without expecting anything in return.

What the fuck is happening to me?

I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. I don’t do charity. I don’t do selfless. I definitely don’t hide in closets to avoid being seen doing something kind.

I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for a long time without really seeing it.

Eventually, I type out a text: How is she?

The response comes quickly. Not good. They want to try a new treatment, but we can’t afford it.

I stare at those words for a long moment. In a day or two, she’ll learn that they can afford it after all. That some mysterious benefactor has stepped forward to save the day.

She’ll be relieved. Grateful to whatever anonymous saint made it possible.

She’ll never know it was me.

And that’s… fine.

No, better than fine. It’s what I want.

I type back: I’m sorry to hear that.

Then I add: Don’t come back to the office today. Take tomorrow too if needed.

Thank you, she replies. For understanding. And for the car.

Such small things to be thankful for. The bare minimum of human decency.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew what I’ve just done. Would she be grateful? Angry that I went behind her back? Would she see it as generosity or just another way I’m trying to control her life?

It doesn’t matter. She won’t find out. No one will ever know except for Dr. Patel, and he knows better than to talk.

I’ve just spent more money than most people see in a lifetime to help a woman I’ve never met, to ease the suffering of my… whatever Rowan is to me. Assistant? Lover? Distraction?

Complication—that’s what I called her once. A beautiful fucking complication.

And now, I’m complicating things even further by doing this. By caring.

It’s dangerous. Weak. Exactly the kind of shit my father warned me against. Caring makes you vulnerable, Vincent. I taught you better than that.

Yet here I am, doing it anyway.

I put my phone away and instruct my driver to take me home. I need a drink. A strong one.

And then I need to figure out why the thought of Rowan’s happiness has become more important to me than the lessons beaten into me since childhood.

36

ROWAN

My heart drops into my stomach when I see Dr. Patel’s name lighting up my phone.

It’s been two days since I got the news about Mom’s declining health, which means two days of sleepless nights trying to figure out how to pull hundreds of thousands of dollars out of thin air. I’ve avoided Vince as much as possible, unable to face him while my world is collapsing.

What fresh hell is on the other end of this call?

“Hello?” I answer, my voice already trembling.

“Ms. St. Clair,” Dr. Patel says. There’s something different in his tone. Not the bland, careful neutrality of a doctor delivering bad news, but something almost… cheerful? “I have some rather extraordinary news about your mother’s treatment options.”

I sink onto my sofa, bracing myself. “What is it?”

“An anonymous donor has come forward to cover the full cost of the experimental protocol we discussed. All expenses paid. Your mother can begin treatment as early as next week.”

The words don’t compute.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “can you repeat that?”

“The treatment has been fully funded,” he says patiently. “By an anonymous benefactor.”

“Anonymous,” I repeat. “As in, you don’t know who it is?”

There’s a slight hesitation. “The donor specifically requested anonymity. This happens occasionally with high-net-worth individuals who prefer to keep their charitable giving private.”

I’m not an idiot. I can hear the careful evasion in his voice.

“But you know who it is,” I press.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information, Ms. St. Clair. I’m sure you understand.”

I do understand. All too well.

There’s only one person in my life with the kind of money that could make this happen overnight. Only one person who knows about Mom’s situation and has a reason to care.

Vince.

“How much?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “How much did they pay?”

Another hesitation. “That’s also confidential. But I can assure you, your mother will receive the absolute best care possible. No expense spared.”

The relief is instant, overwhelming—a tsunami washing away the mountain of fear I’ve been carrying. Mom will get treatment. She has a chance. She might live.

But right behind that relief comes something darker. Something ugly.

How dare he?

How dare Vince swoop in and solve my problems like I’m some charity case? How dare he make this decision without talking to me? Without giving me a choice in how my own mother’s care is handled?

“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”

I realize I’ve been silent too long. “Yes. Sorry. This is a lot to process.”

“Of course. It’s wonderful news, but I understand it’s unexpected.”

Unexpected doesn’t begin to cover it.

“When can I tell my mother?” I ask.

“You can tell her immediately. I’ll be speaking with her later today to go over the treatment plan. We’d like to begin as soon as possible.”

I thank him, go through the motions of gratitude and logistics, but my mind is elsewhere.

After I hang up, I sit motionless on my sofa, staring at nothing, my emotions a tangled knot I can’t begin to unravel.

I should be overjoyed. My mother is getting the treatment she needs. The impossible problem has been solved. I didn’t have to beg, borrow, or steal to make it happen.

But instead of pure happiness, I feel… violated. Like something has been taken from me rather than given.

For my entire adult life, I’ve been the one to figure things out. To make the hard choices. The things I gave up defined me. Sex? Fun? Room to breathe? Not for me, thanks.

And Vince just erased that. With a phone call and a bank transfer, he stepped in and took over.

Worse, he did it anonymously. Didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. No, he went behind my back, making decisions about my life, my mother, without even giving me the dignity of acknowledging what he was doing.