Chapter 52

But even as anger burns through me, something else flickers alongside it.

Could this be lo⁠—?

I stamp that shit right out.

Because the truth—the awful, undeniable truth—is that I couldn’t have done this myself. I had no solution. Mom would have refused the treatment, and I’d have watched her die, knowing there was something that could have saved her but was forever out of reach.

Vince changed that. Whatever his motives, whatever his methods, he gave my mother a chance at life.

How do I reconcile that with my anger? How do I hold onto my pride when it feels so selfish in the face of Mom’s survival?

I grab my bag and head for the door. I need to get to the hospital. Mom needs to hear the news.

My feelings about Vince will have to wait.

Mom cries when I tell her.

Not delicate movie tears that roll gracefully down cheeks, but real, raw, messy sobs that shake her fragile body and leave her gasping for breath.

“How?” she manages between sobs. “Who would do this?”

I perch on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, choosing my words carefully. “An anonymous donor. Someone with more money than they know what to do with, apparently.”

“But why us? Why me?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Why indeed?

“Maybe they know someone who had cancer,” I suggest, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe they’re just a good person.”

Mom scoffs at that, dabbing at her tears with a tissue. “Nobody gives away that kind of money without a reason, Row.”

“Does it matter?” I ask, more sharply than I intended. “You’re getting the treatment. That’s what’s important.”

She studies my face. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

“I… have my suspicions,” I admit.

“Your boss.” It’s not a question.

I say nothing, which is answer enough.

Mom sighs, sinking back against her pillows. “I always knew there was something more going on there. The way you talk about him…”

“It’s not like that,” I lie automatically.

“Isn’t it?” She reaches up to stroke my cheek. “Sweetheart, a man doesn’t spend a fortune saving a stranger’s life without a very good reason.”

I look down at our joined hands. Hers are so thin. Mine are barely keeping the fraying ends of my life held together.

“It’s complicated,” I finally say.

“Love usually is.”

I flinch at the word. “I don’t love him.”

Even to my own ears, the denial sounds hollow.

“Okay.” Mom pats my hand. “But this—” She gestures around the hospital room. “—is a debt we can never repay. You understand that, right?”

“I know.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

That’s the question—well, one of many—I’ve been asking myself since Dr. Patel’s call. What am I going to do? Confront Vince? Thank him? Pretend I don’t know?

“I’m going to make sure you get better,” I say instead. “Everything else can wait.”

Mom gives me a look that says she’s not buying my evasion, but she doesn’t push. She’s too overwhelmed by the reprieve she’s been given, the unexpected second chance.

We spend the rest of the afternoon discussing the treatment plan with Dr. Patel and his team. The first round starts Monday. They’re optimistic—more optimistic than they’ve been in years.

Through it all, my phone stays silent. No texts from Vince. No calls.

It’s not until I’m leaving the hospital that evening that it finally buzzes.

Working late tonight?

Just those three words. As if nothing has changed. As if he hasn’t completely upended my world once again.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say? How do I respond?

In the end, I type: Can’t tonight. Still at the hospital with Mom.

His reply comes quickly: Everything okay?

Actually, yes, I write. Some good news about her treatment options.

There’s a longer pause this time. I can almost see him choosing his words carefully.

I’m glad to hear that. Take all the time you need.

37

VINCE

Father’s study.

I loathe this fucking room.

I remember being ten years old, standing on this exact same stretch of Persian carpet, blood trickling from my split lip after some schoolyard punk called me a “Russian piece of shit.”

I’d put the kid in the hospital. In return, the principal had called my parents. Father made me stand here for an hour while he explained in excruciating detail how I’d failed—not because I’d hurt the kid, but because I’d been sloppy enough to get caught.

Twenty-one years later, and the feeling is exactly the same. Like I’m a child awaiting sentencing.

Except I’m not a child anymore. I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. Future pakhan. Future CEO. The man who will someday own this room, this house, this empire.

If I can just get through this conversation first.

“You’re distracted,” my father accuses, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on his desk. “Careless. Your mind is elsewhere.”

He doesn’t offer me a drink of my own. That’s deliberate. Everything with Andrei Akopov is deliberate.

“My mind is exactly where it needs to be,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “On business.”

He barks out a laugh, harsh and without humor. “Business? Is that what you call fucking your secretary now?”

“My personal life is none of your concern.”

My father’s eyes narrow. His silver hair catches the light from his desk lamp, making him look like some ancient war god seated in judgment. “It becomes my concern when it interferes with what matters. The family. The future.”

I say nothing. I’ve learned over the years that my father’s speeches have their own rhythm, their own inevitable progression.

Interrupting only makes them longer.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” He slams his tumbler down, liquid sloshing over the rim. “That girl has you so twisted up you can barely function.