It’s Not What You Think

The corridor leading to the residential ward always felt a little too quiet. Not peaceful—never that—but hushed, like the building itself was holding its breath, a finger to it’s lips. A silence thick with the weight of time,and the quiet toll of slow goodbyes. Laya moved slowly, her boots muffled against the floor’s linoleum sheen. Room 214 was near the end, just before the large window that overlooked the hospital gardens.

The door was half-open. She knocked gently before easing it open.

“Kyle?” she said softly.

He lay curled on his side, tucked under the hospital-issue blanket, the kind that always looked warm but never was. The pale light from the window fell across his face, making his skin appear almost translucent. Too pale. Too thin.

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, and it took a moment for recognition to register. When it did, he smiled. It was tired, lopsided, but real.

“Hey, Laya,” he murmured, his voice a dry whisper.

She walked to his bedside and perched on the edge of the chair there, trying not to let the tremor in her chest show on her face. She reached forward to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm—too warm.

“Still working on that napping world record?” she teased, gently.

“Think I’m winning,” he murmured, eyes drifting shut again.

She sat with him for a while, just watching him breathe. Twenty Two shouldn’t look like this. Twenty Two should be football bruises and late-night gaming. But Kyle—her little brother in every way that mattered—was fragile now. Diminished.

After ten quiet minutes, she stepped out. The two doctors who had requested to speak with her were waiting near the nurses’ station. She recognized one—Dr. Harrow. Kind eyes, even when delivering hard truths. The other, a younger woman with clipped tones and sharp brows, nodded to her.

They led her to a quieter alcove away from foot traffic.

“I appreciate you meeting with us,” Dr. Harrow began. “We wanted to speak with you in person, given the recent test results.”

She nodded, her arms folded tightly across her stomach.

Dr. Harrow continued. “Kyle’s condition is continuing to deteriorate, I’m afraid. The treatments we’ve tried have had little effect. His disease is progressing too quickly now.”

Laya didn’t speak. She kept her eyes fixed on the muted patterns of the floor tiles.

“It’s a rare disorder,” the younger doctor added. “One that doesn’t respond to traditional therapies. At this point, our only options moving forward would be experimental trials. Some are still in early stages. None are covered by private insurers. They come with significant costs.”

“How much are we talking?” Laya asked, her voice tight.

“Hundreds of thousands, possibly more. Per treatment cycle. And that’s not counting travel or specialist care.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing it. “And if we do nothing? What’s his timeline?”

The doctors hesitated. Dr. Harrow’s voice was quiet when he answered.

“With his current rate of decline… six months. Maybe less.”

She felt the ground sway beneath her, just slightly, like her balance was subtly off-kilter.

“Please put together a list of everything,” she said after a moment. “Every trial. Every contact. I’ll… I’ll figure it out. There’s still my father’s estate. There are options.”

They thanked her, but she barely heard them. Her legs carried her down the hallway on autopilot until she found an unoccupied side room. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she let out a shaky breath and leaned against the wall.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket.

Henry.

She answered it on the second ring.

“Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Any news?”

Henry’s voice came through, slightly crackled but unmistakably his. Calm. Reliable. He had been her father’s right-hand man for over a decade—now promoted to interim CEO of Kerrigan Industries following her father’s death last month. She trusted him more than almost anyone.

“Yes,” he said, exhaling. “We found him. Charles Lamb.”

Laya straightened, her heart kicking up a notch. “Where?”

“Offshore. Some obscure jurisdiction off the Gulf—no extradition treaties. He fled the country a few weeks ago.”

“And the money?” she asked, already bracing herself.

Henry hesitated. “It’s worse than we feared. We have evidence now that Lamb began siphoning funds from the company accounts nearly six months ago. Just before your father’s passing. Carefully hidden in layered transactions. We estimate… 2.5 billion is missing.”

The room tilted slightly. She pressed her palm flat against the wall.

“Gone?” she whispered.

“Gone. All of it,” Henry said. “The company’s assets have been gutted. We can keep day-to-day operations running, barely, but there’s no liquidity. No surplus. And the estate… Laya, I’m so sorry. There won’t be anything left for you or Kyle’s care. Not unless we recover the funds, and that’s… not likely.”

Her breath caught. She felt herself crumpling before she even realized she was sinking to the ground. The phone slid to the crook of her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“I wish I weren’t,” Henry said quietly. “We’ve involved Interpol, financial crime units, everyone we can. But without extradition, and without the assets traceable… he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Her throat ached with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm, but her hands were shaking.

“Kyle…” she whispered.

Henry’s voice softened. “I’ll keep looking. We’re not giving up. I promise you that.”

“Thanks, Henry,” she murmured, and hung up before she could completely fall apart on the phone.

The moment the line disconnected, the silence came crashing in.

The tears came slow at first. Then all at once.

She pressed her face into her arms, her body rocking with the force of it. It wasn’t just sadness—it was grief layered on top of helplessness, buried under guilt. Her father was gone. The company was collapsing. Her brother was dying. And she was just one woman, left to hold everything together with bare hands and not enough time.

How could the universe take so much from one person in such a short time?

The tears continued until there was nothing left. No sobs. Just exhaustion.

She sat there for a long while, letting the stillness wrap around her like a blanket.

Eventually, she would stand. She would wipe her face, breathe deeply, and begin again. Because Kyle needed her. And even if the estate was gone, she would find another way.

🌺 How would you react with your world falling apart? Will the company survive? What about Kyle? Let me know your thoughts in the comments. 🌺

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