HIS HEIR - HER REVENGE

IVY The faint sound of the monitor was the only thing keeping me together. Beep-beep-beep. It sounded so small you could barely hear it, so weak, like it could just stop. I sat on the edge of the mattress, holding my Mom’s hand tight and still so gently. Her hand was warm, so warm, but the rest of her was just still. Her chest moved an inch, maybe two shallow breaths, fogging the plastic mask over and over. She looked smaller than she ever had. My mother, who used to chase me through narrow apartment halls and laugh until she cried, was now fighting for air. The doctor said her lungs were failing faster than expected, and said it was like a weather report. Calm. Detached. Like this was just another Tuesday for him. I kept trying to stay calm, too. Smile. Be the daughter who doesn't break. "You'll be fine, Mama," I whispered, brushing her hair back. "I promise. I'm handling it." She blinked, barely. I'm not even sure if she heard me. When I stepped out into the hallway, I lost it. I pressed my back against the wall so hard that it felt like I couldn’t breathe, covering my mouth with my palms so no one would hear. It's strange how grief and panic can mix into something quiet, almost polite. I didn't scream, nor did I react irrationally. I didn't throw anything. I just stood there, shaking, whispering "please" to no one. Then I saw Dr. Kwan walking toward me, that look on his face—the one doctors give when they're about to tell you bad news but already know you can't do anything about it. "Ivy," he said softly. "We've done all we can with the current treatment plan. But the medication your mother needs next isn't covered under her insurance." "How much?" My voice cracked. He sighed. "Two hundred and eighty thousand. For the full course." I felt something inside me go still. "You mean… two hundred and eighty thousand dollars?" He didn't answer. "I can't…" I laughed a little, out of shock. "You know I can't afford that. I work part-time in a lab. I—I barely pay my rent." He looked away, uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. There are payment plans, charities—" "I've applied to all of them!" I snapped. Then softer, "I've applied to every single one. No one called back." He nodded slowly. "Then maybe… talk to the board about financial aid. Or—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward a nurse at the far desk. The nurse was staring at me. Then, almost like she had made a decision, she walked over. Her name tag read Mara. I'd seen her before. She was always kind, always humming when she checked vitals. But this time her expression was different—hesitant, careful. "Miss Marcellus," she said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "There's someone who might help you." I frowned. "Help? Like charity?" She hesitated. "Not exactly. He helps people who are out of options. But nothing he gives is free." That sentence—it hit differently, like a cold wind down my spine. She slipped something into my hand. A card. Black, heavy, expensive-looking. Just one name engraved in silver: Damian Rafe. My stomach turned. I'd heard the name before. Everyone had. He was the kind of man you never met but somehow feared anyway. Rafe Industries had its hands in everything—real estate, shipping, medicine, and even politics. Some said he owned half the city. Some said he owned everyone in it. "What kind of help?" I asked. Mara didn't answer. She just shook her head. "If you call him, don't tell anyone. And if you go, make sure you know what you're willing to lose." Then she walked away, leaving me standing there with the card burning in my palm. I stared at that name for a long time. Damian Rafe. It sounded like power. Like money. Like danger. That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat by my mother's bedside, the card still on the small metal table beside her. The lights flickered now and then, the kind of dim hospital glow that makes time seem to pass more slowly. I kept thinking about all the jobs I'd tried to pick up, the bills piling up in my inbox, and the way the bank clerk had avoided eye contact last week when she said my account was overdrawn again. I wasn't raised to beg. My mother taught me pride. To stand tall even when we had nothing. But pride doesn't pay for medication. Pride doesn't buy oxygen tanks. Around midnight, my mother started coughing in her sleep. It was weak, raspy, and painful to hear. I held her hand and whispered, "I'll fix it. I promise." But promises don't save people either. By morning, I made up my mind. I left the hospital early, the city still half asleep. The bus ride downtown felt longer than usual. I could see my reflection in the window—eyes red, hair messy, a woman who looked like she hadn't slept in days, maybe because she hadn't. When I reached the Rafe Tower, I almost turned back. The building looked like something out of a dream—cold glass and steel slicing into the sky. Everything about it screamed power. The kind that doesn't wait, doesn't explain, doesn't forgive. Inside, it smelled like money: polished marble floors, chrome elevators, soft jazz humming in the background. Everyone was dressed in black and white. I stood out instantly—cheap shoes, secondhand coat, hands trembling. The receptionist looked me up and down but kept her voice polite. "Do you have an appointment?" "No," I said, swallowing hard. "But I need to see Mr. Rafe." She hesitated, then typed something into her computer. "Name?" "Ivy Marcellus." Her brow lifted slightly, maybe recognizing the last name from the hospital charity lists or perhaps just surprised someone like me had walked into this place alone. "Wait here." She didn't wait for a response, already holding the phone to her ear. Her voice went low as she spoke into the receiver. I couldn't make out the words, just the sharp syllables of "Rafe" and "urgent request." So I waited. I stood there, twisting the strap of my bag. Everyone around me was moving so fast, their shoes clicking against the marble floor. A blur of faces, none of them meeting mine.