CHAP 2 — The Man Behind the Glass
Before the transfusion began, I asked to see Dominic.
Dr. Kim looked uncomfortable.
“That’s unusual.”
“So is asking my daughter to save a stranger.”
“He is unconscious.”
“I won’t be.”
She studied my face, then nodded.
A nurse led me through the private wing of St. Catherine’s Medical Center, where the floors shone like polished bone and the art on the walls was expensive enough to make illness look elegant.
People like Dominic were treated differently even when dying.
Their rooms had softer lights.
Their doors closed quietly.
Their fear had marble around it.
My fear had once lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens while I vomited through pregnancy and wondered whether grief could harm a baby.
Dominic’s ICU suite sat at the end of the hall.
Through the glass, I saw Vanessa first.
She stood near the window in a cream designer dress, one hand resting on her swollen stomach. Seven months pregnant, maybe eight. Blonde hair pinned perfectly. Diamonds discreet but impossible to miss.
She looked like a woman trained since birth to make disaster seem beneath her.
Then I saw him.
Dominic lay in the bed, pale and bruised, tubes running from his arms, dark hair matted at one temple. The man who once filled rooms with certainty now looked breakable.
That was the cruelest thing.
He looked human.
For years, I had survived by turning him into a monument of what hurt me. Cold. Proud. Untouchable.
But the man in the bed was not a monument.
He was flesh.
Blood.
Mistake.
Memory.
Vanessa turned when I entered.
“Who are you?”
“Isabelle Morrison,” I said. “The donor’s mother.”
Recognition flickered.
“Morrison. Why do I know that name?”
“I authenticate art. Some of your circle collects things they don’t understand.”
Her mouth tightened.
“The doctors say your daughter is Dominic’s only hope.”
“So they tell me.”
“What an extraordinary coincidence.”
“Blood isn’t sentimental, Mrs. Castellano. It either matches or it doesn’t.”
She stepped closer, studying my face.
“My husband’s blood profile is extremely rare. Your daughter’s match is exact. One might wonder how that happens.”
“One might wonder many things when her husband is dying.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You know him, don’t you?”
I looked at Dominic.
For a moment, I remembered him barefoot in our old kitchen, stirring sauce at midnight because he insisted grief, hunger, and business failure all required garlic.
Then I remembered him standing beside his grandmother, letting her accuse me while he stayed silent.
“I knew him,” I said.
Vanessa’s smile thinned.
“Name your price.”
I turned slowly.
“What?”
“For the donation. Fifty thousand. One hundred thousand, if you need it. Your daughter helps Dominic, and everyone walks away satisfied.”
“My daughter is not a product.”
“She is a child. You make decisions for her.”
“And I make them based on what is best for her. Not on what your husband is worth.”
Vanessa leaned closer.
“Dominic employs thousands. His life matters to more than this room.”
“My daughter’s life matters to me.”
Her hand tightened over her belly.
“You should be careful, Ms. Morrison. Families like ours remember complications.”
I laughed once.
Softly.
That frightened her more than anger.
“Mrs. Castellano, families like yours are the reason I keep records.”
Before she could answer, an alarm pulsed from Dominic’s monitor.
Dr. Kim rushed in.
“Ms. Morrison, we need to begin now.”
I looked once more at Dominic.
May you like
Then at Vanessa.
“Fine,” I said. “But after he lives, the truth comes with the blood.”
