Chapter 3: Clara
My fingers are so stiff from scrubbing floors that I can barely unlace my sneakers. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my back throbbing with a deep ache that has become my constant companion over the last six months.
I pull my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the banking app.
Twelve dollars and forty-two cents.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the cracked wall. I am drowning. Six months ago, I walked out on Adrian, and since then, I have become a ghost. I work three grueling jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and buy the generic inhalers that barely keep Luna’s lungs open. From six in the morning until noon, I scrub floors at a downtown office complex. From one until six, I wash dishes in the back of a greasy diner. And from seven until midnight, I fold laundry at a twenty-four-hour laundromat.
My hands, once soft and manicured, are covered in chemical burns and small cuts. I am starving myself, living on leftover crusts from the diner and tap water, just so Luna can have a warm meal. Adrian has frozen everything. He didn't chase me; he just put out a private blackball notice so no reputable employer would touch me. He knew exactly what would happen. He is waiting for the city to break me. He is waiting for me to crawl back.
A sudden, violent cough shatters the silence of the room.
I bolt upright. Luna is sitting up in her small twin bed, her fragile frame shaking violently as she gasps for air. Her face turning pale blue.
"Luna!" I rush to her side, pulling her into my lap. Her body is burning fever radiating through her clothes. "Mommy’s here. Hold still, baby."
I frantically grab the generic inhaler from the nightstand, shaking it with trembling hands. I press it to her lips, clicking the canister. She inhales, but the whistling sound in her chest doesn't stop. She coughs again and her head falls heavily against my shoulder.
"Luna? Luna, look at Mommy!"
Her eyes are half-closed, rolling back slightly. She doesn't answer. Her small fingers laxly drop from my sleeve.
Panic paralyses me for a fraction of a second before I wrap her in a fleece blanket, scoop her into my arms, and run out of the motel room. I don't have money for an ambulance or a cab. I just run. My lungs burn, and my legs feel like lead, but I don't stop.
"Please," I sob into the empty street, holding my daughter tighter against my chest. "Please, just let her breathe."
By the time I burst through the sliding glass doors of the nearest public hospital ER, I am gasping for air myself.
"Help!" I scream, moving past the security guards straight to the triage desk. "My daughter isn't breathing! Please!"
A nurse looks up, her eyes widening as she sees Luna’s blue lips. Within seconds, a team of medical staff rushes out, taking Luna from my arms and placing her on a rolling gurney.
"What's her medical history?" a doctor barks as they wheel her behind the double doors.
"She has an advanced congenital heart condition," I shout, running alongside them until a nurse gently but firmly stops me at the threshold. "She needs specialized treatments! Her name is Luna!"
"You have to wait here, ma'am," the nurse says with compassionate voice. "We're going to stabilize her."
The doors click shut, cutting me off from my child.
I collapse into a plastic chair in the hallway, my clothes soaking wet, shivering uncontrollably. The minutes drag into hours. Around three in the morning, the doctor steps out, pulling off his gloves.
"Are you Luna's mother?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, scrambling to my feet. "Is she okay? Can I see her?"
"We've stabilized her breathing with a nebulizer and an IV cocktail, but her heart is under severe stress," the doctor says, sighing heavily. "The damage to her valves is accelerating. She needs to be transferred to a specialized cardiac wing immediately. She needs advanced, aggressive therapy, or her organs will begin to fail within the week."
My voice hitches. "Can... can you transfer her?"
The doctor looks down at his clipboard, his expression shifting to a mix of pity and discomfort. "I looked at your intake form. Without premium corporate insurance or an upfront deposit, our facility can't authorize that specific tier of long-term care. The medication alone is thousands of dollars per dose. I'm sorry, but we can only keep her in the emergency ward for another twelve hours."
The world drops away from beneath my feet.
Twelve hours.
I walk slowly into Luna’s cubicle. She is awake now, an oxygen mask covering the lower half of her face. When she sees me, she reaches out a weak, trembling hand.
"Mommy," she whispers, her voice muffled by the plastic mask. "I want to go home. It hurts."
I take her little hand, pressing it against my cheek, swallowing the bitter taste of my own defeat. "I know, baby. Mommy's going to fix it. I promise."
I step out of the cubicle, walking down the quiet, sterile hallway toward the exit. I pull my phone out. My fingers hover over the contact list: Adrian.
I hate him. I despise him with every fiber of my being. But as I look through the glass window at my daughter fighting for her next breath, I realize my pride means nothing. If I have to crawl back to his mansion, if I have to let his family spit on my name for the rest of my life, I will do it. I will let him destroy me, as long as Luna lives.
With a shaking thumb, I dial his number.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
Before the call can connect, the line suddenly goes busy, and a different, unknown number flashes across my screen, forcing the call to drop. My phone begins to vibrate violently in my hand.
I press answer, my voice cracking with exhaustion.
"Hello?"
"Clara?" a deep, authoritative, yet strangely emotional voice speaks from the other end. "We found you. Twenty-three years ago, you were kidnapped from a playground. Your real name is Anastasia, and your biological father, Arthur, is a trillionaire tycoon who owns the very hospital your daughter is dying in."
The phone slips slightly in my numb fingers. The sterile hallway of the hospital seems to tilt on its axis, shattering my reality into a million pieces.