Chapter 41 Chapter forty one
AANYA
I was in the middle of an intake meeting when Dev texted.
\[Mum in hospital. Emergency heart surgery. St Thomas's.\]
I stared at the message, my heart pounding.
The mother across from me was still talking about her son's school situation. About transportation and tutoring and all the complicated logistics I was supposed to be helping her navigate.
"I am so sorry," I interrupted. "I have a family emergency. I need to leave. Can we reschedule for tomorrow morning?"
She looked disappointed but nodded. I promised I would call her as soon as I could, then practically ran from the centre.
Rosa caught me at the door. "Where are you going?"
"Hospital. Dev's mother. Emergency surgery."
"Go. I will cover your afternoon appointments. Keep me updated."
The taxi to St. Thomas's felt interminable. I kept checking my phone for updates. Nothing.
When I finally got to the cardiac ward, I found the entire Marchetti family in the waiting area. Giulia was pacing. Marco was sitting with his head in his hands. And Dev was standing very still, staring at nothing, looking like he might shatter if anyone touched him.
"Any news?" I asked.
"She has been in surgery for two hours," Giulia said. "They said it could take four to six hours total. Something about a valve replacement. They will not tell us more until it is over."
I went to Dev, took his hand. It was ice cold.
"Hey," I said quietly. "She is going to be all right."
"You do not know that."
"No. But I believe it. She is strong. She is a fighter. She is going to be all right."
He did not answer. Just squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt.
We waited.
Three hours became four. Four became five. The surgeon finally appeared at nearly eight in the evening, still in scrubs.
"The surgery was successful. We replaced the damaged valve. She is stable. But the damage was more extensive than we initially thought. She is going to need significant recovery time. At least six weeks before she can return to any kind of work. And even then, no heavy lifting, no extended standing, no high-stress activities."
"Six weeks," Dev said. "She cannot afford to not work for six weeks."
"If she tries to return to work too soon, she risks another cardiac event. Possibly fatal. She needs rest. Complete rest. Doctor's orders."
The surgeon left us with that.
Six weeks. No work. No income from Francesca's three jobs.
I did the mathematics in my head. Dev was on forced leave from teaching. He had the part-time shop job and dissertation work but that was maybe eight hundred pounds a month. Marco was in school, no income. Giulia's hospital salary covered her own rent and expenses but nothing more.
They needed Francesca's income to survive. And she could not work for six weeks minimum.
"We will figure it out," Giulia said, but she sounded uncertain.
"How?" Dev asked. "Rent is due in a week. We need food, utilities, transport. How do we figure it out when we just lost seventy percent of our income?"
No one had an answer.
We were allowed to see Francesca briefly. She was sedated, hooked to monitors, pale but breathing steadily.
Dev stood beside her bed, holding her hand, looking lost.
"Mamma, I am so sorry," he whispered. "This is my fault. You have been working yourself sick because I am in school instead of working. If I had just gotten a real job instead of pursuing the PhD..."
"Stop," I said firmly. "This is not your fault. She has a heart condition. It would have happened regardless."
"Would it? Or did years of working three jobs because her son refused to help support the family destroy her heart?"
"Dev, that is not fair. You are supporting the family. Your research, your teaching..."
"My research that got me forced onto leave. My teaching that I do not have anymore. I am useless. And my mother is in hospital because I was too selfish to give up my academic dreams and get a real job."
"That is not true."
"Is it not? Because from where I am standing, everything I have done for the past ten years has been about my goals, my research, my career. And my family has paid the price."
He left the room before I could respond.
I found him in the corridor, head against the wall, shoulders shaking.
I wrapped my arms around him from behind. He did not turn around but he did not pull away either.
"I do not know what to do," he said, voice broken. "The trial starts in three days. Crown Estate just produced a witness who is going to testify that my father ignored safety protocols. Sarah says we need to find contradictory witnesses but anyone who worked with my father is too scared to testify. My mother needs six weeks of recovery with no income. We cannot pay rent. And I am standing here completely useless because I have been so focused on this lawsuit and my research that I let everything else fall apart."
"You have not let anything fall apart. You are doing everything you can."
"Everything I can is not enough. It has never been enough."
I turned him to face me. His eyes were red, his face devastated.
"Listen to me. You are not useless. You are not selfish. You have been fighting for your father's memory and for institutional accountability and for justice. That matters. Your mother knows that. Your family knows that. I know that."
"Does it matter if it costs everything? My career is destroyed. My family is bankrupt. My mother nearly died. What good is justice if everyone I love suffers for it?"
"Your career is not destroyed. Your family is not bankrupt. Your mother is going to recover. We are going to figure this out."
"How? Magic money? Magic witnesses? Magic solutions to impossible problems?"
"I do not know yet. But we will figure it out. Together."
He pulled me against him, held on like I was the only thing keeping him upright.
"I am so tired," he whispered. "I am so fucking tired of fighting and losing."
"We have not lost yet."
"Have we not? Look around, Aanya. Look at what this lawsuit has cost. Was it worth it? Any of it?"
I did not have an answer for that.
We stood in the hospital corridor, holding each other while everything fell apart around us.
And I tried very hard not to think about the fact that I had thirty pounds in my bank account and Dev's family needed rent money and I had no idea how to help them.
DEV
We left the hospital around midnight. Francesca was stable, sleeping peacefully. The nurses said we should go home, get rest, come back in the morning.
As if rest was possible.
Aanya came back to my flat. The rest of the family dispersed to their various sleeping arrangements. And we were alone in the tiny space that suddenly felt even smaller.
"I need to tell you something," I said.
She looked at me, worried.
"Crown Estate produced a witness. Antonio Ruiz. He claims my father regularly ignored safety protocols. That the accident was Lorenzo's fault, not institutional negligence."
"That is a lie."
"Probably. But he is willing to testify to it under oath. And unless we can find witnesses who will contradict him, his testimony makes my entire research look like revenge fantasy."
"There must be people who worked with your father. People who know the truth."
"There are. But they are all still working in construction. For companies that do business with Crown Estate. They are not going to risk their livelihoods by testifying against the institution that controls their employment."
"So what do we do?"
"I have no idea. Sarah says we have three days to find someone. Three days to somehow convince a construction worker to destroy their career by contradicting Crown Estate's narrative. Three days to save ten years of research from being dismissed as bias and revenge."
Aanya was quiet for a long moment.
"I might know someone," she said finally.
"What?"
"When I was still a princess, I did site visits. Ribbon cuttings for development projects. There was one in Southwark, maybe eight years ago. Crown Estate project. I remember because the site manager spent twenty minutes explaining safety protocols to me. He was obsessive about it. Kept saying he had learned from a colleague who had died in an accident. A colleague who had taught him that shortcuts in safety always cost more than they save."
My heart was pounding. "Do you remember his name?"
"No. But I remember the project. Southwark regeneration. 2017 or 2018. And I remember he kept mentioning your father's name. Lorenzo. He said Lorenzo had trained him properly and he was not going to disrespect that memory by cutting corners."
"Can you find him?"
"I can try. Palace records would have the site visit details. Which companies were involved. Who the managers were." She paused. "But I do not have access to palace records anymore. And even if I did, asking for them would alert my family to what we are doing."
"Could someone else access them? Someone who still works at the palace?"
"Maybe. If they were willing to risk their position by helping me." She pulled out her phone. "There is one person who might. James. My former private secretary. He helped us communicate after the forum. He believed in what I did."
She typed out a message. We waited.
Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed.
James: I can access the records. But if anyone finds out I helped you, I lose my job and pension. You need to understand what you are asking.
Aanya: I understand. And I would not ask if it was not essential. We need to find a site manager from a 2017-2018 Southwark Crown Estate project. Someone who worked with Dev's father.
James: This is about the lawsuit.
Aanya: Yes.
James: Give me until morning. If the records are there, I will find them. But Aanya, if this goes wrong, we never had this conversation. Understand?
Aanya: I understand. Thank you, James.
She put her phone down, looked at me.
"Now we wait. If James can find the records, if we can identify the site manager, if he is willing to testify... that is a lot of ifs."
"It is more than we had an hour ago."
We sat in silence for a while. The weight of everything pressing down on both of us.
"Dev, I need to tell you something," Aanya said finally.
"What?"