The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and recycled air. I sat in the plastic chair beside Mom's bed. She looked smaller than she had two weeks ago. Thinner. The monitor beeped steady but the sound made my chest tight.
Dr. Patel came in with a tablet. He didn't smile. That told me everything before he said a word.
"Ms. Daniels," he said. "We need to move up the timeline."
I sat forward. "What?"
"Your mother's condition has deteriorated faster than we anticipated. The valve function is declining. We can't wait two months."
Mom's hand twitched on the blanket. I reached over and held it.
"How long?" I asked.
"Four weeks. Ideally sooner."
Four weeks.
I nodded. My throat was dry. "Okay."
Dr. Patel looked at me for a long moment. "The billing department will be in touch about the deposit. We'll need that secured before we can schedule the operating room."
"I understand," I said.
He left. The door clicked shut.
I sat there. Mom's hand was warm in mine. Her eyes were closed but I knew she was awake. She always did that when she didn't want to talk about something hard.
"Lainey," she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Tired.
"Don't," I said. "We'll figure it out."
"Baby." She opened her eyes. Looked right at me. "I'd rather die on this bed than watch you beg that man for one more thing."
I stopped breathing.
She squeezed my hand. "You hear me?"
I couldn't answer. My throat closed up.
"I mean it," she said. "I didn't raise you to crawl."
I blinked hard. Nodded once.
"Okay," I whispered.
She closed her eyes again. "Okay."
I stayed another hour. Held her hand. Watched the monitor. When the nurse came to check vitals I stood up. Kissed Mom's forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I said.
She didn't open her eyes. Just squeezed my hand once more.
I walked out. Down the hall. Past the nurses' station. Out into the cold.
I stood on the sidewalk. Pulled my coat tighter.
Four weeks.
I had four weeks to find money I didn't have.
I started the next morning. Called my bank again. Different person this time. Same answer. I asked about a secured loan against the studio equipment. They said the legal claim made it impossible.
I called three other banks. Two credit unions. A private lender Nora had mentioned once. Every conversation ended the same way. Polite. Apologetic. No.
I sold the first prototype on day three. A ring I'd designed two years ago. Moonstone set in rose gold. I'd kept it because I loved the way the stone caught light. A collector in Boston paid eight thousand. It was worth twenty.
I sold two more pieces that week. A bracelet. A pair of earrings. The total was still nowhere close.
I called every client I'd ever worked with. Asked if they wanted commissions. Custom work. Anything. Most said they'd think about it. Two said yes but the timelines were months out. One offered a small advance. I took it.
Nora came by the studio on day eight. She brought coffee. Set it on my worktable without saying anything.
"How much do you have?" she asked.
I looked at the number I'd written in my notebook. "Thirty-two thousand."
"How much do you need?"
"Ninety."
She sat down. "Lainey."
"I know."
"You can't—"
"I know," I said again.
She looked at me. "Call him."
I shook my head.
"Your mom—"
"She told me not to."
Nora closed her eyes. "Jesus."
I picked up my coffee. It was cold already.
"I'll figure it out," I said.
She didn't argue. She knew me too well.
Across town, Iyla sat across from Jaxon at a restaurant in Tribeca. White tablecloths. Candles. She'd chosen the place carefully. Private corner table. Low lighting.
She watched him check his phone for the third time in ten minutes.
"Busy day?" she asked lightly.
He looked up. "Just some billing issues at the office."
"Mm." She sipped her wine. Set the glass down. "I have a surprise for you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Friday night. I've arranged something special. A private fireworks show. Just the two of us." She smiled. Soft. Warm. "No work. No interruptions. Just us."
He smiled back. "That sounds good."
"There's one condition," she said.
He waited.
"Turn off your phone. Just for the evening. You're always so reachable. Can't I have one night where you're just here?"
She reached across the table. Touched his hand.
He looked down at her fingers on his. Small. Delicate.
"Of course," he said.
She smiled wider. "Thank you."
He picked up his wine. Didn't see the way her eyes sharpened just for a second.
She'd checked his calendar that morning. She knew Emmie's surgery was nine days out. She knew the billing deadlines. She knew exactly what Friday night would mean.
She lifted her glass. "To us," she said.
Jaxon clinked his glass against hers.
"To us," he echoed.
She drank. Smiled.
And said nothing else.
