Chapter 2 Contract Written in Blood

Eleanor Wayne

​I had only one anchor on the concrete floor of Ward 4B: the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

​Beep. Beep. Beep.

​It was a slow, deliberate rhythm, one that usually offered a strange, hypnotic comfort during the long nights spent curled in the vinyl visitor's chair. But tonight, the gap between each chime left me with a serious panic.

​I squeezed my mother's hand. Her skin felt like dry paper-thin and far too cool against my feverish palms. Just hours ago, she had been smiling a faint, exhausted version of her old self, but present. We had joked about the dreadful hospital meal, about how we were going to rent a tiny apartment near the coast the moment she was discharged. She had promised me she was feeling stronger.

​She had lied.

​"Eleanor..." Her voice was barely a rasp, a dry whisper against the constant buzz of the fluorescent lights above.

​"I'm right here, mama," I whispered.  "Don't try to talk. Just rest."

​Her chest hitched. A terrible, wet wheeze tore through her lungs, and before I could reach for the call button, the monitor beside her bed broke its steady pulse. The slow beep dissolved into a distraught, spine-chilling scream.

​"Daisy!"

​Within seconds, the quiet isolation of the room shattered. Footsteps thundered down the linoleum hallway. Nurses swarmed the small space, pushing me aside with practiced, indifferent efficiency. A doctor, Dr. Richard, his blue scrubs faded at the seams, jammed a stethoscope against her chest, his forehead creased with a deep, troubled frown.

​"Get two milligrams of Ativan ready! Her oxygen saturation is plunging, it's down to sixty-four," someone shouted over the alarm.

​"Eleanor, you need to step back," Dr. Richard said, his hand briefly pressing against my shoulder, forcing me towards the heavy double doors.

​"What's happening? She was fine two hours ago!" My voice cracked, suppressed by tears. I couldn't move. My sneakers felt glued to the floor, my eyes locked on Daisy's face as her head thrashed weakly against the stark white pillow. She was drowning, on dry land, right in front of me.

​"Her immune system is rejecting the baseline therapy," Richard spoke rapidly, his gaze snapping back to the IV lines connected to her  wrist.  "The infection is aggressive. We're moving her to the ICU immediately."

​"Wait, ICU?" The words were heavy on my mouth. "You said the standard protocol was working!"

​"It was," Richard replied, his tone chillingly level, devoid of any cruelty yet utterly lacking in hope. "It isn't anymore. The pathogen has mutated beyond what the standard antivirals can suppress. If we don't switch her to the Phase-3 bio-targeted infusion by tomorrow morning, her organs will begin to shut down."

​The room seemed to tilt. The breathless rush of nurses moving around Daisy blurred into streaks of blue and white.

​"Then switch her," I demanded, grabbing Richard's forearm before he could turn back to the bed. "Do it now! What are you waiting for?"

​Richard stopped. He looked down at my hand on his sleeve, then up into my eyes. The exhaustion in his expression felt older than time.

​"The experimental trial isn't covered by state insurance, Eleanor. You know this," he said quietly. "The pharmaceutical board strictly controls the distribution. The deposit for the initial six-stage infusion is ninety-five thousand pounds. Out of pocket."

​Ninety-five thousand pounds.

​The number dropped between us like a lead weight. My entire savings account held four hundred and twelve pounds and forty pence. My credit cards were already fully utilized from her previous admissions and the endless stack of prescriptions.

​"I don't have that," I breathed, my grip slipping from his arm. "You know I don't have that kind of money."

​"Then I am so sorry," Richard said softly, pulling back. "We can make her comfortable in the ICU. We can manage her pain. But without the deposit logged in the hospital register by nine o'clock tomorrow morning... the lab will not release the serum."

​Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Less than twelve hours.

​They wheeled her bed out, leaving me standing alone in the quiet, dim hospital room. The empty bed was stripped, bare mattress exposed, cold and unfeeling.

​I stumbled out into the night air, the crisp autumn wind cutting straight through my thin jacket. My phone buzzed in my pocket, a text from the billing department, an automated, callous reminder of the deadline Dr. Richard had just pronounced.

​My reflection clung like a shadow to the screen." I could feel every beat of my heart hammering against my ribs, a terrifying reminder that while my blood was pumping steady and warm, my mother's own was slowing down.

​There was only one person left in this city who had ninety-five thousand pounds to burn without a second thought. And only one person who would make me pay for every single pence in flesh and soul.

​I grabbed my keys, got into my battered sedan, and drove towards the high-rise district, where luxury glass towers reached for the sky.  My hands shook so badly against the steering wheel that I could barely hold the lane. Everything in me screamed to turn around, to find another way, to sell a kidney, to rob a bank, to beg on the street corners. But deep down, I knew none of those desperate fantasies would yield ninety-five thousand pounds by sunrise.

​Twenty minutes later, I stood in the marble entrance of the penthouse suites at 400 Grand. The elevator doors slid open, revealing the vast, dimly lit living room of Rhett Wright, a man whose wealth was matched only by the quiet, ruthless control he exerted over everyone in his orbit.

​He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of scotch hanging loosely between his fingers, looking down at the sprawling city lights below. He didn't even turn around when I walked in.

​"You're late, Eleanor," he said, his deep voice carrying easily across the mable floors.

​"I need your help," I said, skipping any pretense, my voice steadying through sheer, unadulterated desperation. "Daisy has twelve hours. I need ninety-five thousand pounds by nine A.M."

​Rhett turned around slowly. The amber light from the streetlamps reflected off the sharp angles of his face, casting deep shadows over his eyes. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips, not of pity, but of a collector who had just watched a rare piece fall into his trap.

​"Ninety-five thousand," he repeated smoothly, taking a slow sip from his glass. "A steep price for a life that was already hanging by a thread."

​"Please, Rhett. I'll do anything. I'll sign whatever agreement you want. I'll work for you for the rest of my life. Just wire the funds to the hospital."

​He set his glass down on the volcanic glass table. Step by step, he bridged the distance between us until he was standing right in front of me, close enough that I could smell the rich, smoky scent of his cologne.

​He reached out, his  fingers picking up a heavy folder lying on the console table behind me. He tossed it onto the table between us.

​"The money is already transferred to an escrow account, Eleanor," Rhett said softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute, terrifying authority. "It takes a single click from my phone to release it to Ward 4B."

​My breath hitched. "Then release it. Please."

​"Oh, I will," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were mere inches from my ear. "The moment you sign page four. But before you open that folder... you should know what you're actually trading Daisy's life for."

​He pulled a thin silver key from his pocket and pressed it into my frozen palm, closing my fingers over it.

​"Because if you sign," he continued, his voice dropping to a sinister, quiet murmur, "you aren't just working for me. You belong to me. And the first thing you're going to do with that key isn't going to save your mother, it's going to destroy the only other person you love."