It was a violent shift from the scent of jasmine and expensive champagne at the St. James estate. Bruno burst through the sliding glass doors, his midnight blue jacket flapping open, sweat soaking through the dress shirt Marcel had pinned to perfection just hours ago. He ignored the stairs. A man in a $5,000 suit running into a public ER looked like a walking contradiction. [clears throat] Sophie Bennett, he gasped at the triage nurse, gripping the counter. My sister brought her in.
Where is she? The nurse, a tired woman named Barb, who had seen everything, typed slowly. Pediatric observation. Bed four. Sir, you can't just Bruno was already moving.
He tore through the curtain of bed four. There she was. Sophie looked tiny in the hospital bed, swallowed by the white sheets. An oxygen mask was strapped over her face, fogging up with each shallow, rattling breath. Her skin was gray, her hair matted with sweat.
His sister, Jen, was sitting in the plastic chair looking terrified. She stood up when she saw him. Bruno. Thank God. The doctors, they said her oxygen levels dropped to 82.
It's pneumonia, Bruno. It's bad. Bruno fell to his knees beside the bed. He took Sophie's small hot hand in his. The Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, heavy gold, and worth more than his sister's house, clinkedked against the metal railing of the bed.
The sound made him sick. I'm here, Sophie," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Daddy's here." Sophie's eyes fluttered open. She looked drugged and exhausted. "Daddy," her voice was muffled by the mask.
"You look fancy. I had a meeting, baby. A big meeting. But I'm done now." A doctor walked in, clipboard in hand. Dr. Evans.
He looked at Bruno's suit, then at the intake forms that listed Bruno's occupation as junior draftsman, and his insurance status as high deductible, pending. "Mr. Bennett," Dr. Evans said gravely. "We've stabilized her, but the infection is aggressive. She needs IV antibiotics and a few nights in the PICU to monitor her breathing. If we sent her home, she could go into respiratory failure." Do it, Bruno said instantly.
Whatever she needs. We need to discuss the billing, Dr. Evans said, lowering his voice. Your insurance carrier has flagged the coverage. The P ICU is expensive. We require a deposit for the non-covered portion before admission to the unit.
How much? 3,000. Tonight? The room spun. $3,000. Bruno had $42 in his checking account.
Rent was due in 3 days. I I'll get it. Bruno lied, his voice hollow. Just help her. As the doctor left and Jen went to get coffee, Bruno sat in the silence of the machine beeps.
His pocket buzzed. He pulled out the burner phone. Incoming call. Evelyn St. James. It buzzed again and again.
Bruno stared at the screen. He could picture her at the party, probably angry, probably embarrassed that her perfect boyfriend had bolted. If he answered, he would have to explain. He would have to tell the ice queen that her gladiator was just a broke dad who couldn't afford to keep his daughter alive. He couldn't do it.
The shame was too heavy. He declined the call. Then he powered the phone off. He took off the bespoke jacket and wrapped it around Sophie's feet to keep them warm. [clears throat] He sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, still wearing the vest and tie, and held his daughter's hand as the adrenaline crashed. He fell asleep like that.
A prince turned back into a pauper, keeping vigil in the fluorescent purgatory of the ER. Monday morning came like a sentencing hearing. Bruno hadn't showered. He had splashed water on his face in the hospital bathroom, brushed his teeth with a finger, and driven straight to the office. Sophie was stable, but Jen had to go to work.
So, Bruno had called in a favor from a neighbor to sit with her for a few hours. He had to go to work. If he lost this job, he lost the insurance. If he lost the insurance, Sophie was done. He walked into the spire at 8:55 a.m. [clears throat] He wasn't wearing the blue suit that was folded carefully in a bag to be returned.
He was back in his frayed carcass and a button-down that was slightly too tight at the neck. The bullpen was silent as he walked to his cubicle, heads turned. Greg didn't make a joke. He just stared at Bruno with wide eyes. "Dude," Greg whispered.
Security was looking for you. They said, "You have to go up to the top." Bruno felt the blood drain from his face. This was it. He took the elevator up. The numbers climbed 20, 30, 40.
Each floor felt like a step towards the gallows. When the doors opened, the executive assistant, a woman who usually ignored him, stood up. She's waiting. Good luck. Bruno walked to the mahogany doors.
He didn't knock. He just opened them. Evelyn was standing by the window, her back to him. She was wearing a black powers suit, sharp enough to cut skin. The room was freezing.
She must have cranked the AC. "Close the door," she said. Her voice was flat. "Dead." Bruno closed it. Evelyn turned around.
Her face was composed, but her eyes were red- rimmed. She looked like she hadn't slept either. But unlike Bruno, she didn't look exhausted. She looked dangerous. "You have a lot of nerve coming back here," she said quietly.
"Evelyn, I I trusted you," she cut him off, her voice rising. "For the first time in 5 years, I let someone in. I gave you a role. I gave you my reputation. And what did you do?