“Nothing important,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just that Dr. Whitman's optimistic about your progress. The treatment's working, Izzy. We just need to keep it going.”
She didn't appear entirely convinced but let it pass, perhaps too tired to press further. “The gallery showing might help with expenses,” she offered. “Christina thinks some pieces could sell for decent money. Not enough for treatment, obviously, but maybe to help with rent or something.”
“Let's focus on your artistic triumph, not the finances,” I suggested, grateful for the change of subject. “Tell me more about this Christina and the gallery plans.”
For the next hour, I let Isabelle's enthusiasm wash over me, her animated descriptions of the exhibition plans providing welcome distraction from the decision I'd already made. When she finally tired, her energy reserves still limited by illness and treatment, I helped her settle back against the pillows.
“You should go home and get some sleep,” she murmured, already drifting toward unconsciousness. “You look proper rough.”
“Charming,” I replied with feigned offense. “And here I thought I was pulling off the fashionablydishevelled look.”
Her soft laughter followed me to the door, a sound I treasured above all others. In the corridor, I paused, listening to the rhythmic beeping of her monitors, the mechanical reassurance that her heart continued beating, that breath still filled her lungs. The sound steeled my resolve, a metronomic reminder of exactly what was at stake.
Tomorrow evening, eight o'clock. A car would collect me for my meeting with Adrian Calloway. I would enter whatever darkness he inhabited willingly, eyes open, fully cognizant of the moral compromises such a choice entailed. For Isabelle, I would cross lines I'd once considered inviolable.
As I walked through the hospital's main entrance into the cool evening air, London spread before me in all its contradictory glory—beautiful and ugly, welcoming and dangerous, filled with possibilities both wondrous and terrible. Tomorrow I would step into its shadows willingly, accepting whatever awaited me there.
The choice wasn't really a choice at all. It never had been.
5
CROSSROADS
NOAH
Looking at my bathroom mirror, assessing my appearance with critical eyes. The stark fluorescent lighting did me no favours, highlighting the dark circles beneath my eyes, the pallor that came from too many sleepless nights and hospital shifts. I'd chosen my best shirt, a deep blue button-down that Isabelle had given me last Christmas, and my only proper trousers, pitifully inadequate for meeting someone of Calloway's evident wealth and power.
Running a hand through my damp hair, I tried to tame it into something presentable. The reflection staring back at me looked exactly like what I was: a desperately tired nurse from a council estate background, not someone who belonged in whatever world Calloway inhabited. I straightened my collar, a futile attempt to elevate my appearance to match the gravity of the evening ahead.
My cramped bathroom, with its perpetually dripping tap and cracked tiles, felt symbolic of the life I was potentially leaving behind. Modest, flawed, but honest. Safe, in its ownway. The uncertain path stretching before me lacked even that small comfort.
“Get it together,” I muttered to my reflection. “This isn't about you.”
My phone buzzed on the sink edge, Mika's name flashing on the screen. I picked it up reluctantly, guilt already pooling in my stomach before I even read her message.
Mika
Drinks tonight? You need to decompress before you collapse. Jon might come too, though he's been proper mardy lately.
I typed another lie, adding to the growing collection of deceptions I'd accumulated in the past twenty-four hours:
Noah
Sorry, migraine. Rain check?
The bathroom shelf above the sink held a scattered array of medications, silent reminders of my responsibilities. Anti-anxiety pills I sometimes took to manage stress after particularly difficult shifts, sleeping aids for my persistent insomnia, painkillers for the physical toll of lifting patients and standing for endless hours. I considered taking something to calm my nerves but decided against it. Tonight required clear thinking, sharp instincts, and unclouded judgment.
In my bedroom, I checked my wallet out of habit. ID, hospital badge, a creased photo of Isabelle and me at her art school acceptance celebration three years ago. She'd been vibrant then, full of life and promise before illness drained her colour and vitality. Her smile in the photograph remained radiant, untouched by the suffering that would follow. I traced the outline of her face with my fingertip, a ritual of remembrance and purpose.
I tucked Adrian's business card behind the photo, the two objects representing the opposing forces in my life: what I was protecting and what I was potentially surrendering to. The juxtaposition wasn't lost on me.
A final glance around my small flat revealed the modest life I'd built. Medical textbooks stacked beside literature I rarely had time to read. A half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table. The worn sofa where I occasionally managed to sleep when my bed felt too empty, too silent. Not much to show for thirty years of existence, but it was mine, built through honest work and clean choices. Until now.
At exactly 8 PM, my apartment buzzer sounded, the harsh electronic tone slicing through my contemplation. From my window, I saw a sleek black car with tinted windows idling at the kerb, looking conspicuously out of place in my working-class neighbourhood. Several passers-by slowed to admire it, perhaps wondering which of the building's residents had suddenly come into money or fame.
No turning back now. I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as if preparing for physical impact rather than a conversation. The weight of Isabelle's life, of her continued treatment, pressed against my chest, propelling me forward when every instinct urged retreat.
I descended the narrow stairwell, each step bringing me closer to whatever future Calloway was offering. The stairwell light flickered ominously, casting strange shadows that seemed to whisper warnings I deliberately ignored.
