I obeyed.
The word alone was offensive.
But my mother was in the hospital, and pride had terrible timing.
Damian moved through the restaurant without hesitation, one hand already dialing someone as we crossed the lobby.
"Prepare Cardiac Unit Three," he said into the phone. "We're ten minutes out."
He ended the call and kept walking.
I grabbed his arm.
"She's not at your hospital."
"She is now."
I stopped.
"What?"
He turned just enough to look at me.
"Your mother was transferred three minutes ago."
Rage and panic hit at once.
"You had no right—"
"She collapsed." His voice cut cleanly through mine. "Argue later."
A black sedan waited outside.
Rain slicked the street silver.
He opened the rear door.
I hated getting in.
I hated needing the ride more.
The drive was too fast and too quiet.
I called the hospital twice.
No answer.
I texted three times.
No reply.
My knee bounced uncontrollably.
Across from me, Damian read emails on his phone like we were headed to brunch.
I wanted to throw something at him.
Instead, I said, "If anything happens to her—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I already spoke to the attending physician."
I stared.
"You what?"
"I prefer information before emotion."
"You sound inhuman."
"No," he said, eyes still on the screen. "I sound prepared."
I hated how much calmer that made me.
Only a little.
Still hated it.
The car turned sharply beneath an illuminated sign:
Vale Medical Center
Glass doors opened before we fully stopped.
Staff were already waiting.
Of course they were.
Inside, everything smelled clean, expensive, and efficient.
A nurse approached immediately.
"Miss Quinn?"
"Yes. My mother—"
"She is stable."
My knees nearly gave out.
The nurse caught my elbow.
"Low blood pressure and cardiac stress. She is awake now."
I breathed for what felt like the first time in an hour.
"Can I see her?"
"In a moment. The doctor wants a word first."
I turned to Damian.
He had stepped aside to answer another call, expression unreadable.
Like this was all routine.
Maybe it was.
Maybe crises were easier when the whole world rushed to obey you.
The doctor arrived, mid-fifties, calm eyes, efficient smile.
"Miss Quinn, your mother needs a procedure we've recommended for months."
My stomach tightened.
"The valve repair?"
He nodded.
"We postponed because of payment concerns."
I looked down.
Shame was a familiar weight.
"What now?"
"We have an opening tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow.
So soon it sounded unreal.
"And the cost?"
The doctor hesitated only briefly.
"It has been authorized."
I knew before I turned.
Damian stood several feet away, ending his call.
I walked straight to him.
"No."
He slipped the phone into his pocket.
"No what?"
"You don't get to buy this too."
His gaze moved past me to the corridor leading to patient rooms.
"Your mother gets surgery tomorrow."
"I said no."
"And if your pride kills her?"
The sentence landed like a slap.
I stepped closer.
"You don't get to use her against me."
"I'm saving her despite you."
"Nothing you do is despite anything. Everything is control."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
Then vanished.
"Believe what you like," he said. "But sign whatever papers they bring you."
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I whispered, "Why are you doing this?"
For one second, he looked tired.
It changed his whole face.
Then the mask returned.
"Because I dislike unfinished business."
I hated that answer more than if he'd given none.
My mother looked smaller in the hospital bed.
Machines hummed softly around her. Her hair, once thick and dark, had thinned near the temples. Her hands looked fragile against the blanket.
But when she saw me, she smiled.
There are smiles that break people.
This was one of them.
"Sweetheart," she whispered.
I crossed the room in two steps.
"You scared me."
"I wanted one dramatic moment before lunch."
I laughed and cried at the same time.
Very unattractive.
Very real.
She touched my cheek.
"You look tired."
"You nearly collapsed."
"And you still found a way to make this about me."
That was my mother.
Weak body. Sharp tongue.
I sat beside her carefully.
"They said surgery tomorrow."
Her smile faded.
"It's expensive."
"It's handled."
By the time I said it, I already regretted it.
Her eyes narrowed.
"How?"
I glanced at the doorway.
Too late.
Damian stood there, one hand in his pocket, perfectly composed in a room full of monitors and fear.
My mother looked from him to me.
Then back again.
"Oh," she said softly.
"No," I said immediately.
She ignored me.
"So this is the handsome problem."
I closed my eyes.
"Mother."
Damian stepped inside.
"Mrs. Quinn."
His voice changed around her.
Still deep. Still controlled.
But gentler.
I disliked noticing that.
She smiled warmly. Traitor.
"You're taller than the television made you look."
A pause.
Then Damian said, "I'll speak to them about tomorrow's schedule."
He turned to leave.
My mother caught my wrist the second he was gone.
"Tell me everything."
"There is nothing to tell."
"You hate him."
"Yes."
"You're blushing."
"I am furious."
"Same color."
I stared at her.
She smiled wider.
Then winced.
My panic returned instantly.
"Don't move. Don't joke. Don't breathe too hard."
She squeezed my hand.
"He came when I needed help."
"He came because he likes control."
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe he likes you."
I stood up so fast the chair scraped.
"You need rest."
"You need honesty."
I escaped into the hallway.
Damian was there, leaning against the wall outside the room, reading something on his phone.
"Eavesdropping?" I asked.
"No."
"You're near enough."
"You're loud enough."
I folded my arms.
"What now?"
"The surgeon will brief you in ten minutes."
"And after that?"
He looked at me steadily.
"After that, you're coming home with me."
My heart stopped.
Then restarted violently.
"No."
"Yes."
"I have an apartment."
"I know."
"Then why would I—"
"Because," Damian said quietly, "someone entered it an hour ago."