"Forget about that cake. If you want one, I'll take you to the shop and have them make it fresh."
"Really? Adrian, you're the best!"
Their voices faded down the hallway until they vanished.
The locker room fell silent.
I stared at the cake box abandoned on the floor. The elegant packaging read: For My Love.
Just like eight years of my devotion—casually trampled and tossed aside like worn-out shoes.
I bent down, grabbed the cake, and hurled it into the trash.
A dull thud.
Like the first toll of a funeral bell for this disgusting relationship.
The ICU hallway's fluorescent lights cast a harsh, sterile white.
Disinfectant mixed with the scent of death. Suffocating.
I sat on the bench, gripping my phone, the screen's glow illuminating my ashen face.
Beep—beep—beep—
The monitor alarm shrieked from inside the room, sharp as nails on glass.
Doctors and nurses rushed in.
I shot to my feet. My legs buckled. I nearly collapsed.
"Dad!"
I tried to follow, but a nurse blocked me at the door.
"Family members wait outside! We're doing resuscitation!"
The heavy door slammed shut. Life and death, separated by inches.
I pressed against the glass, watching the frantic movement inside, watching my father—covered in tubes—jolt upward with each shock from the defibrillator.
My nails dug into the wall. Blood seeped out. I couldn't feel it.
Half an hour later, the attending physician emerged drenched in sweat. He pulled off his mask, expression grave.
"Dr. Winfield, your father's condition has worsened."
"He just went into sudden ventricular fibrillation. We brought him back, but it's critical."
"We need to perform a modified bypass within 24 hours, or… not even God could save him."
Twenty-four hours.
Modified bypass surgery.
In all of Sacred Heart Hospital—in the entire city—only one surgeon could perform it with a success rate above fifty percent.
Adrian Henson.
He was my only hope.
My hands shook as I dialed his number.
Beep… beep… beep…
Each ring hammered against my chest.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Like a woman possessed, I dialed that number I knew by heart, over and over.
On the twelfth try, he finally picked up.
The background noise was loud—soothing jazz, clinking glasses.
"Adrian!"
My voice cracked, desperate. "My dad's dying! The doctor says he needs surgery now! Can you—"
"I'm busy."
Cold. Distant. Annoyed.
"I'm in a seminar with the hospital director. It's important. Don't bother me."
"A seminar?"