Around him, Caldwell Neurology Institute shimmered in marble and glass—a monument to his wealth and reputation. Yet as he watched his seven-year-old son, Noah, struggle down the corridor on crutches, Ethan felt bankrupt in the only way that mattered.
The irony was merciless. He owned one of the most advanced private medical centers in the country. He could summon elite specialists within hours. Still, no one had been able to diagnose the neurological condition that kept Noah from walking steadily.
“Mr. Caldwell, the investors from Berlin are waiting,” his assistant Lauren said softly.
“Tell them to wait,” Ethan replied, eyes fixed on his son. “Or cancel.”
Dr. Whitaker approached with the newest results from an experimental European treatment. His expression said enough. Another failure. Another dead end. Three years of clinics, private jets, and hope—and Noah still woke each morning to fight a battle his father couldn’t win for him.
“Dad, can we get grilled cheese?” Noah asked brightly, as if his legs weren’t trembling.
“Of course,” Ethan said, forcing a smile. “Anything you want.”