Chapter 2 - The Secret Diagnosis
The private examination room at Chicago Mercy Memorial was silent except for the rhythmic, dull hiss of an oxygen machine. Ethan Whitaker stood by the window, the city’s skyline glowing against the black night, watching his reflection blend with the shadow of armed guards outside the room. Nobody told Ethan Whitaker to leave. Nobody dared.
On the bed, Ava lay with an IV taped to the back of her hand, her blonde hair spread out across the pillow. She looked small, almost fragile, stripped of the glamorous illusion of her stage persona. Beside the door, Dr. Vance—a high-end physician on Ethan’s permanent payroll—handed Ethan a thin medical chart.
""Severe pulmonary fibrosis coupled with end-stage vascular inflammation,"" Vance whispered quietly, ensuring his voice didn't disturb the sleeping skater. ""She’s been hiding it for over a year with heavy suppressants and painkillers. Her lung capacity is functioning at barely thirty percent, Mr. Whitaker. How she survived a four-minute championship routine without collapsing mid-air is a miracle of pure willpower.""
""Can you fix it?"" Ethan asked, his voice cold, stripped of emotion, though his knuckles were white inside his pockets.
""With conventional treatment? She has three, maybe four months before complete respiratory failure,"" Vance said bluntly. ""There is an experimental cell-regeneration protocol in Switzerland, but it’s completely unapproved by the FDA, private, and costs nearly two million dollars out of pocket. Even then, the waiting list is controlled by foreign boards.""
""Money is not a conversation I have, Vance. Make the call. Buy the clinic if you have to,"" Ethan ordered without hesitation.
""I don't want your dirty money.""
The weak voice came from the bed. Ethan turned to see Ava staring at him, her hazel eyes clouded with pain but burning with defiance. She had pulled off her oxygen cannula, her chest heaving as she struggled to prop herself up against the pillows.
""You should rest,"" Ethan said calmly, walking over and placing a firm, warm hand on her shoulder, gently forcing her back down. ""And you shouldn't speak about things you don't understand.""
""I know who you are, Ethan Whitaker,"" Ava whispered, her throat dry. ""Everyone in this city knows. My father owed money to loan sharks on the South Side when I was a kid. Men like you took our house. Men like you broke his hands. I spent my whole life training so I would never owe anyone a dime.""
Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't offer apologies or excuses. ""Your father made foolish bets with desperate men. I don't break hands for petty debts, Ava. I run this city. And right now, the only thing keeping you breathing is sitting in this room.""
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""I'd rather die on the ice doing what I love than survive as a mobster's charity case,"" she spat, though a coughing fit immediately betrayed her defiance.
Ethan watched her patiently until her breathing settled. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her bed, his dark eyes intense, unyielding, yet strangely tender. ""You aren't charity. You gave my daughter the first genuine smile she’s had since her mother died. You showed her what courage looks like. In my world, that makes you priceless. You will accept the treatment, Ava, because I don't permit things that belong in my daughter's life to simply vanish.""
