Panic drove me toward Justin's number—but I didn't need to call. He was right there, in the adjacent VIP ward, hovering over Tommy's bed.
"Uncle Justin prepared the best room for you," Justin said, his voice softer than I'd heard in years. "Tommy, you have to be strong."
Brooklyn leaned into his embrace, eyes red-rimmed—a perfect picture of fragile beauty.
"Justin, thank goodness I have you," she wept. "Without you, what would a widow and her orphan do?"
Dark fire ignited in my chest.
This was Brooklyn's doing. The moment Carter needed surgery, her son suddenly fell ill. No coincidence.
I wanted to storm in and tear down their façade. But their next words nailed me to the floor.
Brooklyn's voice dropped to a whisper. "Justin... if your wife finds out we took Carter's match, what will we do?"
Conflict flickered across his face. Brooklyn let a fresh tear fall.
"Tommy's illness hit so fast. But Carter... his condition is chronic. He can wait..."
The doctor beside them nodded. "Yes, Director. Your son's body can handle a few more months."
Lies. Carter was late-stage. He didn't have months.
I stared at the doctor. He wouldn't meet my eyes. Brooklyn had bought him.
Justin's expression hardened.