"Fine. He's your patient. Your responsibility. Your glory."
"But what am I?"
I looked at Dad. His eyes were red, but he stayed silent, refusing to meet my gaze.
"You won't touch your savings to save me because the hospital 'can't show favoritism.' You won't accept gifts. You won't save your own daughter."
"So that's it. You never intended to let me live. You were just waiting to sacrifice me for someone else's son."
The words tasted like ash.
Back when I was on the transplant waitlist, I hadn't dared ask for a private room—terrified someone would cry nepotism. I walked on eggshells to protect her reputation. Yet she'd pulled every string she had, mobilizing decades of connections to snatch away my lifeline and hand it to a stranger.
I shoved past the hands trying to restrain me. A sharp, familiar agony twisted in my chest, but I forced my legs to move toward the elevator.
"From today on, whether I live or die is none of your concern." My voice shook. "Go hug your precious medical ethics. Go save the people you actually care about."
Behind me, the corridor erupted—Mom's indignant shouts, Dad's panicked pleas, Stella Dickerson's muffled sobs blending into a wall of noise.