I stay silent as Hector carefully scans the proposal—as both their gazes trail the calculations and explanations within. And with every second that passes without them speaking, the more Lenore’s eyes seem to tear up.
“He did all this…?” she whispers with a hesitant glance at me.
My own anger softens a little at her pleading expression.
“Yes. Aside from the calculations with the affordability and sustainability models. The math is mine, but the ideas were all him. He was determined to find a balance—a way to help people, to ensure no one else has to lose their Jamies, while taking steps to make the initiative profitable. And a lot of people have already expressed an interest in partnerships if Hallazgo were to launch it, which would assist with funding, and the majority of the associated costs would qualify as charitable contributions, making the program not only socially impactful but also financially sustainable.”
A tear slides down Lenore’s cheek, which she hurriedly wipes away.
Hector’s gaze remains fixed on the folder. “These calculations…”
“I know what I’ve done is different from many traditional affordability models,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious,which isinsanesince math is my thing, and I know I made those figures my bitch. But then, having my work scrutinized like this, by the father of the man I love—where so much is hinging on his reaction—is a position I’ve never been in before. I guess it only makes sense I’d be nervous. “Most of them focus primarily on income levels, but I wanted to account for real-world financial behaviors. By incorporating both the debt-to-income ratio and cost-of-living adjustments, I’ve analyzed how patients might prioritize treatments. That was something Damian really pushed for—to understand how the average person struggles with more than just their medical bills, so we can find a way to avoid patients having to choose between potential financial ruin and their health. It’s a game theory approach, illustrating how different price points would affect patient decision-making, especially when it comes to continuing or abandoning treatments due to cost. The goal wasn’t just to make medication more affordable, but to determine the threshold where more people could access the care they need without compromising Hallazgo’s bottom line. And that can be done by leveraging subsidies, cost-sharing agreements with hospitals, grants, and discounted medication prices through pharmacy partnerships. As well as those charitable write-offs I mentioned.”
Hector looks up at me then. “Since you don’t have access to Hallazgo’s financials, how did you determine sustainability?” It doesn’t escape my notice that the rough edge to his voice is gone. Now, all I hear is a genuine curiosity.
I roll my teeth over my bottom lip. “I built risk assessment models based on publicly available industry data, historical market trends, and real-world case studies—everything from insurance claim denials to crowdfunding campaigns for medical expenses. I even ran predictive simulations to test different economic scenarios, ensuring the program remained viable even if market conditions fluctuated.”
He blinks. “You…ran simulations,” he echoes, the words drawn out and laced with bemusement.
I nod. “Several. I had to be sure the numbers held up. If Hallazgo moves forward with this initiative, it won’t just be a PR stunt or some superficial corporate social responsibility effort. It’ll be a financially sound strategy that expands market share whileactuallyhelping people.”
With a sharp breath, Hector sinks back into the sofa cushions, as though the weight of what I’ve just told him has knocked all the air from his lungs. It’s the first real crack I’ve seen in his carefully controlled demeanor. The first real hint that he’sreallylistening. Beside him, Lenore sits frozen with one hand hovering over her open mouth as if she’s about to say something but can’t quite find the words.
Relief barrels through me. Numbers might help me make sense of the world, but I don’t need a math formula to tell me I’ve gotten their attention.
“I have to say, this is highly impressive, Miss Dornan,” Hector says, his tone stunned. “I’d expect this kind of work from a seasoned industry expert, not someone still in college.”
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before—from teachers, professors, admissions scouts. Hell, I was invited to join Mensa in elementary school after achieving a perfect score on my RICAS exam (which led to my official IQ test), though I declined due to the membership costs since money was really tight at the time. But coming from Damian’s father, those words hold more weight than I’m prepared for.
But this isn’t about me.
“I’m not looking for your admiration or praise. I may have run the numbers, but everything else that’s in this proposal—the vision, the commitment to making a real impact—that’s all Damian. He’s been the driving force behind this project. He’s not just viewing Hallazgo as a business, but as a platformon which to build something meaningful. Something that can change lives…likeyourfather wanted.”
Hector blanches at the mention of his father. Or perhaps, at the realization that he doesn’t know his child as well as he thought.
“I only helped to make it something tangible usinghisideas,” I continue. “Something that you might actually take seriously.”
And he has. Heis. I can see it written all over his face. And I know that even if he rejects the proposal, he can’t reject the hard work and dedication Damian has put into it. Or the compassion and ambition it was born from.
Having said everything I wanted to say, I hoist my bag strap over my shoulder again and rise, standing to leave. Neither of them attempt to stop me, and maybe it’s their silence, maybe it’s my lingering resentment of how they’ve treated their son, but when I reach the living room door, I throw out one last sentiment.
One final food for thought.
“You know, for someone who you think only cares about money, Damian sure is determined to try to use yours for good.”
Then, with their stunned expressions seared into my mind, I turn and walk out of the room without looking back.
No hay mal que dure cien años - There is no evil that lasts a hundred years
Translation: Bad times don’t last forever. And it feels like things are finally starting to look up.
Sunlight beams in through the cabin windows, searing my eyelids and wrenching me from sleep. This morning has clearly chosen violence, but I guess it’s my own damn fault for forgetting to lower the blinds in here last night.
Sighing, I push up onto my elbows, and look out through the glass panes at the bright cerulean blue sky beyond. After the shitshow with my parents on Wednesday, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to campus, so I came here instead—to theLucia, where I could hide away from the outside world for a while, and lament how completely I’ve blown up my life.
This is my fault, I know that. My parents might have had a hand in pushing me to this point through sheer emotionalneglect, but the choices I’ve made are what put the nails in my coffin, so I really have no one but myself to blame for whatever comes next. I’ve tried to think what that may be—shit, with nothing to do the last three and a bit daysexceptthink about it, you’d assume I’d have a plan or even a slight inkling of an idea. But I don’t. It’s as if, one moment, I was reading the completed novel of my life, and then the words were suddenly wiped from the page. Now, I’m just left with a cliffhanger and no way to access the subsequent chapters to find out what’s going to happen, good or bad.
I can’t stay on theLuciaforever—my parents will eventually realize where I am, and it’s not really stocked for permanent residence—but what else can I do? I can’t go to my abuela’s.I don’t want to pull her into my mess or force her into a position where she has to choose between me and my dad, her only child. That wouldn’t be fair. But I can’t go home, and I can’t bring myself to go back to school; partly because I don’t know how much longer I’ll be enrolled there before my tuition payments are cancelled, but also because the thought of being there makes me feel too exposed, too easily within my parents’ reach, even if they’ve made no sign or show of wanting to see or talk to me again. They haven’t tried to call me, and I’ve been too much of a coward to check my accounts—to see if they’ve followed through on their threat in September to cut me off. If they have, I’ll be even more stuck than I already am. Homeless. Floating out to sea, like a raft with no paddle, helpless as I’m carried aimlessly by waves I can’t control. Every second I spend in this weird limbo seems to only pull me farther from the shore of the life I was settling into, and all I can do now is wait for the tide to either swallow me or leave me stranded in this new, unfamiliar reality.
