Chapter 3

Tyler’s tears finally spilled over. He bit his lip hard, turned around, and stumbled out of the room.

A nurse gasped in the hallway outside. He must have tripped and fallen.

Julian pointed a trembling finger at my face.

"Fine. Great. Lynn Mitchell, everything you did today is going straight to Dean Henderson. Don't think you can play god just because you sit in this chair!"

I pulled out a sanitizing wipe and slowly, methodically cleaned my fingers.

"The door is on your left. Don't let it hit you on the way out."

Julian slammed the door shut.

Less than five minutes later, I could hear him shouting into his phone from the stairwell down the hall. He was so loud the entire floor could hear.

"Mrs. Vance, it's Julian. I'm so sorry, there's a massive issue with the drug allocation... Director Mitchell refuses to sign off. You and Mr. Mitchell need to get down here right now. I can't keep this under wraps anymore."

I tossed the used wipe into the trash, spun my chair around, and looked out the window.

Twenty years.

I had waited for this phone call until my very bones felt restless.

The next morning, the moment I walked into my office, Julian snuck in with a smug, mocking grin on his face.

"Director Mitchell, Mrs. Vance asked me to deliver a message."

"Speak."

Julian choked on his words for a second, forcing his anger down. "Mrs. Vance said, mother to mother, she hopes you can understand. If Tyler’s drug gets approved, she will personally fund and donate the most advanced PET-CT scanner to our radiology department."

I flipped open the medical chart on my desk.

"A PET-CT scanner? That’s over three million dollars."

"Exactly!" Julian’s eyes lit up. "Mrs. Vance promised it personally. No take-backs."

"Must be nice to be that rich," I sneered.

Thinking I was tempted, Julian leaned in closer. "Director, let’s be real. Tyler’s medical profile is flawless. You sign the paper, everyone wins. It’s good for the hospital, and it’s even better for your next performance review. Dean Henderson’s new research lab is still waiting on Vance Enterprises' phase-two funding, you know."

I stopped writing and stared directly into his eyes.

"Dr. Carter, how many years have you been in this field?"

"Six... six years."

"Six years. And have you ever seen me, Lynn Mitchell, sign off on a single document in exchange for money?"

The smile on Julian’s face froze.

"I don't care how much Samantha Vance is paying you under the table. But in this office, her money is nothing but garbage."

Julian shook with rage, his mouth opening and closing but no words came out. Finally, he sneered, spun on his heel, and slammed the door.

The office fell silent.

I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, entered my passcode, and pulled out a plain black folder.

Inside, there were no medical charts or hospital documents. There were only yellowed, decades-old bank receipts, blurry photos, and a few USB drives containing recorded calls.

This was the evidence I had spent more than seven thousand days digging out from the depths of hell.

I thought I would have to wait longer for the Mitchell family to make a mistake. But God had eyes. Tyler’s illness relapsed, and this specific drug was his only hope.

At two in the afternoon, my office landline rang.

"Hello, is this Director Mitchell of the Compassionate Use Program?"

The voice on the other end was dripping with the same high-and-mighty arrogance I remembered.

Twenty years, and Samantha’s tone of talking down to people hadn’t changed at all.

Back then, my ex-husband had begged her, kneeling in front of her BMW.

She had rolled down the window, thrown a few hundred-dollar bills in his face, and said: *"The kid is dead anyway. Just make another one. If you dare come to my office and make a scene again, I’ll make sure you lose your job sweeping the streets!"*

"Speaking," I said, gripping the receiver.

"This is Samantha Vance, Tyler’s mother. I want to discuss my son’s drug approval with you in person. Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM. Be in your office."

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

"Of course," I smiled. "I'll be waiting."

"My husband will be joining me. We expect a reasonable explanation from you, Director Mitchell."

"I promise you’ll get exactly what you deserve."

I hung up, walked over to the restroom, and looked in the mirror.

The woman staring back had short, sharp hair and cold, icy eyes.

At forty-five, I was no longer that pathetic girl in a faded T-shirt with a ponytail, weeping and begging for mercy.

More than that, back then, to them, I was just a poor relative from the countryside whose name wasn’t even worth remembering. How could they possibly recognize me now?

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