“I don’t care about the board,” Ethan said.

He walked toward the door, but before his hand could reach the silver handle, the door swung open.

The smell of expensive French perfume instantly filled the sterile room.

Eleanor Harrison stood in the doorway.

She wore a beige trench coat, damp from the Chicago rain, and a perfectly styled silk scarf around her neck.

Her hair was immaculate, unaffected by the wind outside.

Behind her stood Dr. Albright, the hospital’s chief administrator, who was shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.

“Ethan,” Eleanor said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of warmth. “I thought I might find you here.”

She did not look at me.

To Eleanor, I was just a shape in the hospital bed, an inconvenience she had paid to disappear five years ago.

“Get out of this room, Mother,” Ethan said.

“Is that any way to speak to a woman who just saved this hospital’s pediatric department?” Eleanor asked.

She stepped into the room, her high heels clicking sharply on the linoleum floor.

She glanced at the heart monitor beside my bed, her eyes cold and calculating.