“No.”
His eyes narrow. “That wasn’t a question meant to be answered quickly.”
“I know.”
Another beat.
“Fine,” he says finally. “You’re cleared to leave.”
I nod once. “Camille’s taking me.”
“Good.”
I turn to go, hand on the door-
“Pierce.”
I stop.
“Yes?”
“If they call again,” he says, voice low, “you tell me.”
I look back at him, surprised despite myself.
“I can handle it,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “That’s not what I said.”
Something about the way he says it lands heavy in my chest.
I nod. “Understood.”
I leave before I can overthink it.
Camille is waiting exactly where I left her.
“You good?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, even though my hands are shaking again.
We head toward the elevator together.
Behind us, Rowan’s office light stays on.
And I don’t know why that feels like it matters.
The drive takes forty minutes.
Forty minutes of red lights, stalled traffic, and the quiet hum of Camille’s car filling the spaces neither of us knows how to talk around.
We pull into the lot at 7:34.
The rehab center sits on the east side-low, rectangular, brick stained darker by age and exhaust. Not impressive. Not expensive-looking. The kind of place you choose because it’s what you can afford, not because it’s what you want. But it’s clean. The lights are warm. The windows don’t feel like a cage.
High ratings. Decent doctors. That’s what I tell myself every time I come here.
Inside, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and cafeteria food. A nurse at the front desk looks up and smiles when she sees me.
“Oh, good,” she says. “She’s been asking for you.”
My stomach twists.
Camille squeezes my shoulder once before I walk down the hall alone.
My mother’s room is halfway down, door cracked open. I push it wider.
She’s sitting up in bed, hair unbrushed, eyes sharp and unfocused all at once. The moment she sees me, her face hardens.
“Where have you been?” she snaps.
“I” I take a step closer. “Mom, I’m here now.”
She looks past me, scanning the doorway. “Where’s your brother?”
My chest tightens. “I don’t know.”
Her hand closes around the plastic cup on her tray.
Before I can move, she throws it.
Water splashes against the wall, the cup skittering across the floor. “You’re lying,” she screams. “You’re always lying,”
“Mom-“
“Get out,” she yells. “You took him away from me.”
The sound cracks something in my chest.
I step back quickly, turning just long enough to catch Camille in the doorway.
“Can you-” My voice breaks. I clear my throat. “Can you step out?”
Camille doesn’t argue. She slips back into the hall as a nurse rushes past me into the room.
My mother is still shouting when I sit down in the chairs outside her door. My hands shake now. I can’t stop it. The words blur together until they’re just noise-until a second nurse arrives, then a third.
The shouting fades.
The door closes.
A nurse steps out a few minutes later, voice soft. “We had to sedate her. She was very agitated.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
Camille sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
“I haven’t told her,” I say suddenly.
Camille tilts her head. “Told her what?”
I swallow. “About my brother.”
Her hand stills on my back.
“She had three strokes,” I continue quietly. “All within a month. She’ll need around-the-clock care for the rest of her life.”
Camille’s breath catches.
“She can’t live on her own,” I say. “She can’t manage her meds. She can’t even tell time anymore. But she remembers him.” My voice wavers. “She remembers him, and she keeps asking for him, and I don’t know how to tell her he’s gone.”
The tears come then. Hot. Unstoppable.
The head nurse approaches, concern etched into her face. “I’m sorry. She was just asking for you.”
I wipe at my cheeks. “I think she’s confused. From the strokes. Sometimes she calls me by his name.” I force a breath. “Sometimes she asks for me when she means him.”The nurse nods slowly. “That can happen. And sometimes… sometimes we never fully know.”
I nod too. What else is there to do?
We stand to leave.
“Ms. Pierce?” the nurse says gently, stopping us. “I know this is a difficult time, but… there’s another payment due.”
Of course there is.
“I know,” I say, already pulling out my phone. “Can I pay in advance? A few weeks?”
Her eyes widen. “Of course.”
We walk to the desk. I open my banking app, fingers steady now, and decide not to think about it.
One month.
I tap confirm.
The screen loads.
The payment goes through.
The nurse’s mouth parts slightly. The other nurse beside her stares at the screen like she expected it to decline.
Even Camille looks at me, eyes wide.
“Have a good night,” I say quietly.
We leave without another word.
As we reach Camille’s car, she pauses and looks at me sideways.
“How did you manage a full month?” she asks quietly.
I open the passenger door and hesitate. “I got promoted.”
Her brows lift. “Promoted?”
“Not the kind that comes with balloons,” I add dryly. “Rowan gave me an advance. And a black card.”
Camille freezes. “A black card?” she repeats.
“For a wardrobe,” I say, already sliding into the seat. “Apparently I’m not allowed to look like I survived a library collapse anymore.”
Her grin is immediate. Bright. Unapologetic. “Oh my god.”
I glance at her. “Don’t.”
She’s already bouncing a little as she gets into the driver’s seat. “I am absolutely going to.”
“Camille.”
She starts the car, still smiling. “You realize what this means, right?”
“That I’m in debt to my boss in more ways than one?” I mutter.
“That you’re getting new clothes,” she corrects, pulling out of the lot. “Proper ones. Shoes. Jackets. Everything.”
I lean my head back against the seat, exhausted. “This is not the time.”
She glances at me, softer now. “Actually? It kind of is.”
rot
>
Rowan
I don’t research people out of concern.
I research them to understand what they cost me.
It’s just after nine when I pull up the rehab center’s website on my tablet, jacket off, tie loosened, city lights bleeding through the windows of my penthouse. Violet left on time tonight. That alone is unusual enough to stick with me.
Evergreen Rehabilitation Center.
The name is deliberately harmless. Soft. Reassuring. The kind of place meant to suggest stability while charging by the day.
The website loads slowly.
That’s the first thing I note.
Outdated design. Generic stock photos. Testimonials that sound like they were written by the same person with different names attached. Not damning on its own-but it’s sloppy. Sloppy places cut corners.
I scroll.
East side location. Not the worst neighborhood, but not insulated either. Security listed as “on-site staff.” No mention of overnight monitoring beyond nurses. No locked wing. No specialized neurological unit.
Yet they advertise post-stroke care.
I don’t like inconsistencies.
I pull up public records next. Inspections. Staffing ratios. Medicare complaints.
There it is.
A flagged report from eight months ago. Understaffing during evening shifts. Two patient falls in the same quarter. No major penalties. Fines paid. Issue “corrected.”
Corrected is a flexible word.
I tap my pen against the desk and keep reading.
Another note. Six months ago. A patient altercation. No serious injuries. Family declined to press charges.
Violence, then.
That tracks.
I lean back slightly and consider what Violet didn’t say.She didn’t ask to leave early.
She didn’t ask for flexibility.
She didn’t ask for help.
She handled the calls. She stayed. She left on time and still went across town.
That tells me more than anything the website can.
I pick up my phone and dial the number listed for Evergreen.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.