Chapter 1 I'll arrange the money
Elara's POV
“Please.”
The word escapes me before I can swallow it back. It comes out raw, ugly, stripped of dignity—nothing like the composed voice I use every day in the Alpha’s tower.
“I just need time,” I say again, softer now, like lowering my voice might soften reality itself. My hands are shaking so badly I clasp them together in my lap, nails digging into skin. “A week. Two. I’ll arrange the money. I swear I will.”
The doctor doesn’t meet my eyes.
He flips a page on his clipboard instead, the paper whispering far too loudly in the small consultation room. I watch his pen hover, hesitate, then write something that feels permanent.
I hate that sound.
Paper deciding life.
“Elara,” he says gently, using my name like it might cushion the blow. “Your mother’s condition has progressed faster than we anticipated. Stage three leaves us very little room to delay treatment.”
Stage three.
I’ve heard the words before. I know what they mean. I’ve memorized every medical term, every percentage, every hopeful statistic I could cling to like a lifeline.
But hearing them now—said like this, with that careful tone—makes my chest seize.
“She’ll die if you stop,” I say. My voice cracks halfway through the sentence, betraying me. “You can’t just—just send her home. She’s responding to treatment. She ate this morning. She—”
I choke on the rest.
He finally looks up.
Pity.
Regret.
Finality.
The holy trinity of bad news.
“I understand how hard this is,” he says. “But the hospital can’t continue without payment confirmation. We’ve already extended—”
“How much?” I interrupt, desperate. “Tell me the exact amount. I’ll sell something. I’ll borrow. I’ll—”
“We can continue once the payment is cleared,” he says firmly.
The words land like a verdict.
Not unkind.
Not cruel.
Just absolute.
My ears ring. For a moment, I can’t tell if the room is too bright or if my vision is blurring. I nod because if I speak again, I’ll shatter completely—and I can’t afford that. Not here. Not now.
“I understand,” I whisper, though I don’t. I really don’t.
I stand too fast, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He says something else—my name, maybe—but I’m already turning away, already pushing the door open before he can see the tears sliding down my face.
The hallway smells like antiseptic and quiet despair.
My shoes slip against the polished floor as I walk—no, stumble—past nurses, past families huddled together like they can keep death away if they hold each other tightly enough.
I don’t make it far.
The moment I reach the empty stretch near the elevators, my legs give out.
I slide down the wall, my back hitting it with a dull thud. My knees fold to my chest. I press my fist to my mouth to keep the sound in, to keep from sobbing loud enough to draw attention.
Hospitals are full of grief.
Mine isn’t special.
Mine doesn’t earn exceptions.
The sobs come anyway—silent, violent, ripping through my chest until my ribs ache. Tears drip down my knuckles and splash onto the floor. I don’t wipe them away. What’s the point?
Please. Please. Please.
I don’t know who I’m begging anymore.
God. Fate. The universe. Anyone who might still be listening.
My magic stirs beneath my skin, responding to my distress like it always does—warm, restless, furious. It hums through my veins, bright and useless.
I’m a healer.
I’ve closed wounds that should have killed grown men. I’ve stopped internal bleeding with my hands shaking and my heart pounding. I’ve pulled people back from the edge of death while everyone else stood frozen in horror.
But cancer doesn’t answer to me.
It doesn’t bleed.
It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t yield.
It just eats.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one. To my mother. To myself. To the magic that refuses to help when I need it most.
I’m powerless.
The word tastes bitter and wrong, like something that doesn’t belong to me—but it wraps around my throat anyway, tight and suffocating.
Minutes pass. Or hours. Time feels meaningless here.
Eventually, the sobs burn themselves out, leaving me hollow and aching. I drag in a shaky breath and push myself upright, my legs trembling beneath me.
My reflection stares back from the dark glass of the elevator doors.
I barely recognize her.
My skin is pale, stretched tight over cheekbones that look sharper than they should. My eyes are red-rimmed, hollow, too large for my face. There’s something unraveling in my expression—a woman coming apart thread by thread.
I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.
I smooth my hair with trembling fingers, tucking loose strands behind my ears. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my blouse, scrubbing away tears until my skin feels raw. I straighten my clothes, tugging them back into place like armor.
Control.
Composure.
Silence.
By the time I step outside into the harsh afternoon light, I am no longer a daughter begging for her mother’s life.
I am the Alpha’s secretary again.