Mistletoe Miracle

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Within thirty minutes, the car glided to a halt in front of the Meyer Cancer Center at New York-Presbyterian Brooklyn Hospital.

“Madam, we have arrived,” Arnold said, his eyes meeting Eleanor’s in the rearview mirror. She offered a soft hum of acknowledgment, waiting for him to round the vehicle and hold the door open.

As she stepped out, Eleanor gripped the handle of her cane to steady herself against the pavement. In truth, she was more than capable of walking unaided, but the cane was never really about stability. To Eleanor, it was an extension of her presence—a scepter that commanded a certain gravity and authority with every measured click against the floor.

“Wait here for me, Arnold,” Eleanor instructed, her tone quiet but absolute.

“Of course, Ma’am.” Arnold bowed his head respectfully before returning to the driver’s seat to find a place to park.

Eleanor crossed the threshold into the hospital with an effortless, measured elegance. Although visiting hours had long since passed, the usual restrictions didn’t apply to her. As a primary benefactor of the facility, she moved with quiet confidence of someone who knew a single phone call could open any door, from the private wards to the surgical suites. Eleanor rarely leaned on her status as a social lever, but she recognized that power was a tool—and tonight, she intended to use it.

“Good evening. How can I help you?” the nurse at the intake desk asked, her voice carrying the practiced, weary kindness of a late shift.

“I’m here to see someone,” Eleanor replied.

“I’m so sorry, but visiting hours ended quite a while ago,” the nurse said, her tone apologetic but firm. “You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

Eleanor didn’t argue. Instead, she offered a thin, knowing smile and reached into her silk clutch. She withdrew a small, embossed card and held it up. As the nurse’s eyes scanned the name, her posture shifted instantly—her shoulders straightened, and her expression moved from fatigue to sheer disbelief.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize… It’s an honor to meet you, Ma'am,” the nurse stammered, her face flushing.

“You’re too kind,” Eleanor said, her voice like velvet. “Now, would you be so helpful as to find a room number for me?”

“Of course. Right away. Who are you looking for?”

Eleanor angled her phone toward the nurse, displaying a name on the screen. The nurse’s fingers flew across the keyboard in a flurry of activity. Within seconds, she scribbled the details onto a visitor’s pass and slid it across the desk with both hands.

“Thank you,” Eleanor said, tucking the card away.

“Would you like an escort, Ma'am? I can have someone walk you up.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Eleanor replied, already turning toward the elevators. “I believe I can find my way.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a wonderful evening.”

“You, too,” Eleanor replied with a final, gracious nod.

She moved toward the elevators, her cane tapping a rhythmic, authoritative beat against the polished marble. After a glance at the directory, she pressed the button for the oncology wing, where Serenity’s father, Calloway Chase, was admitted. As the elevator ascended, the quiet hum of the machinery was the only sound in the car, matching the cold, clinical stillness of the building.

The doors chimed as she reached her floor. Eleanor stepped out and consulted the brass plaques on the wall, quickly locating the correct wing. As she walked down the hall, several nurses looked up from their stations, prepared to intercept the late-night visitor. However, as soon as their eyes fell upon the specialized guest pass in her hand—and the unmistakable air of command she projected—the words died in their throats. They simply stepped aside, allowing her to pass unchallenged.

She found Room 1412. The heavy door was slightly ajar, casting a sliver of fluorescent light into the darkened hallway. Eleanor gave a soft, polite knock before pushing the door open. To her surprise, Calloway was not asleep. Despite the lateness of the hour, he sat propped up against the pillows, his gaze fixed on the window as if he had been expecting a visitor, or perhaps just waiting for the night to end.

Calloway looked toward the door when he heard someone knocking, and was shocked to see an elderly, yet elegant woman dressed to the nines enter his room.

“May I help you?” Calloway asked, his voice raspy from disuse but possessing a surprising clarity.

“Are you Calloway Chase?”

“I am,” he replied, squinting against the dim light. “And you are?”

Eleanor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she moved with deliberate grace to the chair beside his bed, smoothing her skirts as she sat. Only once she was settled did she meet his gaze. “Mr. Chase, my name is Eleanor Masters-Sterling. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Calloway’s breath hitched, the name catching in his throat like a physical weight. “I—of course I’ve heard of you,” he managed, his shock quickly giving way to a weary sort of guardedness. “You’re infamous in New York.”

“Famous is more like it,” Eleanor corrected, a faint, amused glint in her eyes. “But thank you for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Calloway countered, his tone flat and unfiltered. “It was a statement of fact.”

Eleanor felt a rare flicker of surprise. She was momentarily caught off guard by his bluntness; in her world, few people spoke to her without a thick layer of practiced deference or calculated flattery. The irritation she usually felt toward such insolence never came. Instead, it was replaced by a spark of genuine interest.

She studied him for a moment, silently impressed. Even in the sterile vulnerability of a hospital gown, his body clearly weakened by the toll of his illness, Calloway Chase still possessed a spine of iron. He dared to look her in the eye without blinking, a feat many of the city's most powerful men often failed to achieve.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Sterling?” Calloway asked, his voice tightening with a sudden, sharp edge of suspicion.

“I’m here to discuss your daughter,” Eleanor answered calmly.

The change in Calloway was instantaneous. His brows furrowed, and a shadow of fatherly concern crossed his weary features. “What about her? Is she alright? Has something happened?”

“She is perfectly fine. More than fine, actually,” Eleanor replied, her composure acting as a cooling balm to his rising panic. “I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance only this evening.”

“Excuse me?” Calloway’s confusion deepened, his mind clearly racing to bridge the gap between his world and hers. “How on earth did my daughter cross paths with someone of your... magnitude?”

Eleanor paused. She let the silence stretch, the steady hum of the hospital monitors punctuating the stillness of the room. She considered the chain of events—the chance encounter, the girl’s spirit, the undeniable pull of the girl's potential. What truly allowed Serenity to meet someone of Eleanor’s caliber? Only one word felt grand enough to carry the truth.

“Fate,” Eleanor replied, the word hanging in the air between them like a promise. Calloway’s confusion only deepened. Eleanor leaned forward slightly, the shift in her posture signaling that the pleasantries were over. The air in the room seemed to thicken with the weight of an unspoken proposition.

“Mr. Chase,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, resonant tone that commanded his absolute attention. “I believe there is something very specific that you and I need to discuss.”

She let the suggestion linger, her gaze unwavering. It wasn't a request for his time; it was an invitation into a world he had only ever seen from the outside—a world where his daughter’s future could be secured, provided he was willing to listen to what Eleanor had to offer.