Chapter 4 - The Price of a Life
The private emergency room at St. Jude’s Hospital was quiet, illuminated by cool fluorescent lights that reflected off polished linoleum floors. Unlike the public city ER three miles away, where patients waited four hours in plastic chairs just to see a triage nurse, St. Jude’s was reserved for high-net-worth donors and private insurance holders.
Damon Cross had changed the protocol with a single phone call from the back of his car.
Now, he sat in a leather armchair in the private waiting suite, his tuxedo jacket tossed over the back of a chair, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dirt from the bridge encampment still stained his trousers and the cuffs of his shirt.
In the small bed across the room, Lily was fast asleep. A clean cotton gown had replaced her frayed clothes, and an IV line was taped securely to the back of her left hand, delivering fluids and vitamins to her malnourished body. A half-eaten bowl of chicken broth sat on the bedside table.
The door opened softly, and Dr. Harrison walked in. He was a tall, silver-haired man who had been the Cross family’s personal physician for over a decade. He looked tired, pulling off his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.
"How is she?" Damon asked, standing up immediately.
"The mother—her name is Sarah Vance, according to the ID in her pocket—was suffering from acute double pneumonia brought on by severe exposure and malnutrition," Dr. Harrison said, leaning against the doorframe. "If you had found her two hours later, Damon, her lungs would have failed completely. Her body temperature was down to ninety-two degrees."
Damon closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a long, slow breath. "Will she survive?"
"We have her on broad-spectrum intravenous antibiotics, a warming blanket, and oxygen," Harrison replied. "She’s stable now. She’s awake, actually. She’s weak, but she’s asking for her daughter."
Damon looked over at Lily, who was breathing softly, one thumb hooked into the edge of the clean blanket. "Can I speak to her first?"
"Briefly," Harrison said. "Room 402. Don't tire her out."
Damon walked down the quiet corridor to Room 402. The room was dark save for the amber glow of the heart monitor and a small reading lamp beside the bed.
Sarah Vance looked much younger than she had beneath the bridge. Without the mud and shadows, Damon could see she was likely no older than twenty-four. Her face was thin, her cheekbones prominent, her lips dry and cracked. When the door clicked open, her head turned slowly toward him, her large brown eyes—the exact shade of Lily’s—widening with alarm.
"Who... who are you?" her voice was a raspy whisper. "Where is Lily? Is she—"
"Lily is safe," Damon said quickly, stepping into the room and keeping his hands visible. "She’s three doors down. She’s eating, she’s warm, and she’s sleeping. My name is Damon Cross."
Sarah’s eyes flickered with confusion. She didn't recognize the name, but she recognized the clean linen of the bed, the silver monitors, and the quiet luxury of the hospital room. "I... I can't pay for this," she panicked, trying to push herself up on her elbows. "I don't have insurance. I don't have any money. Please, don't call the police. I was just trying to shelter her from the rain—"
"Quiet," Damon said softly, stepping to the side of the bed and gently placing a hand on the mattress to encourage her to lie back down. "Nobody is calling the police. Nobody is asking for money. Everything here is paid for."
Sarah looked at him, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her breath. "Why? Why would a stranger do this for us?"
Damon was quiet for a long moment. He looked at his own polished fingernails, then down at the dirt smudge on his wrist.
"Your daughter walked into a party tonight," Damon said softly. "A party full of wealthy people who claimed they were gathering to help children like her. A woman yelled at her because she reached for a piece of cake. She called her a stray."
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears, her chin trembling. "She was just hungry... I told her to stay on the bench... I went to look for work at the diner, but they turned me away... I couldn't go back to her empty-handed... I felt so lightheaded..."
"I know," Damon said. "I found her. I gave her the cake. And then she led me to you."
He took a chair from the corner and dragged it closer to the bed, sitting down so he was at eye level with her.
"Tell me how you ended up under that bridge, Sarah."
Sarah wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "My husband died eighteen months ago. An industrial accident at the port. The company denied liability because they said he wasn't wearing his safety harness, even though the gear was faulty. They fought us in court until my savings were gone. We lost the apartment six months ago. I’ve been working day shifts at laundromats and kitchens, but without an address, nobody hires you for long. The shelter was full... so we went to the bridge."
Damon felt a cold, deliberate anger settling into his bones. It was not the explosive rage he had felt at the gala; it was something permanent, something structural.
"What was the name of the company at the port?" Damon asked.
Sarah hesitated, her brow furrowing as she tried to recall through the fog of her medication. "Rochefort Maritime Logistics," she said softly. "They own the north docks."
Damon stared at her. A low, bitter chuckle escaped his lips before he could stop it.
May you like
Elisa Rochefort’s family. The same family that hosted eighty-thousand-dollar dessert tables to display their philanthropy had stripped this woman of her livelihood through corporate legal stalling.
"I see," Damon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming as cold as iron. "Rest now, Sarah. You and Lily are never going back to that bridge."
