9. Willow
9
WILLOW
I sit in Dr. Peter's office, trying not to fidget as I stare at the diagrams of human hearts plastered on the wall. My own heart feels like it's trying to escape my chest, which is ironic considering I'm here to get it replaced.
Cast sits beside me, his imposing frame making the hospital chair look like doll furniture. His suit is impeccably pressed despite the autumn wind, and the gold rings on his fingers catch the fluorescent light whenever he moves his hands. Most people would never guess he's one of the most feared men in the city. To them, he probably looks like an overprotective boyfriend or maybe a bodyguard.
To me, he's both protector and problem.
"You didn't have to come," I mutter for the fifth time since I was wheeled into this room.
Cast doesn't even glance my way. "We've been over this, Carina. Where you go, I go. "
Warmth flares in my chest, but before I can respond, the door opens, and a woman steps in with quiet authority.
“Sorry for the wait. I’m Dr. Evelyn Peters, and I’ll be leading your procedure.”
She’s in her early fifties, dark brown skin, sharp eyes that take everything in. Silver streaks run through her neatly pulled-back hair, and she carries herself like someone used to making impossible decisions. Nurse Lindsey follows, gripping my chart like a lifeline, eyes darting to Cast before quickly looking away.
“You must be Willow,” Dr. Peters says before turning to Cast.
“Cast, Willow’s boyfriend.” His grip is firm when they shake hands, and I swear he enjoys saying that.
Dr. Peters nods. “I’m glad she has a strong support system. Today, we’ll go over what to expect.”
“Starting with the success rate,” Cast cuts in. “Real numbers.”
Dr. Peters doesn’t blink. “The ArtCore-9 has been implanted in five patients. All five survived. Four resumed normal lives. One required additional procedures to fine-tune the rhythm.”
“And Willow will be number six.”
“Yes,” she confirms. “And the youngest.”
Cast’s jaw tightens. “That increases the risk.”
“Cast, please,” I whisper, squeezing his arm.
Dr. Peters brings up a 3D model of the ArtCore-9, a sleek titanium structure with soft blue pulses. “This isn’t just a pump—it’s biomechanical. The synthetic lattice inside will gradually be colonized by your own cells. Over time, 40% of the heart will become living tissue. ”
My breath catches. “Part machine, part me.”
“Exactly.”
Cast stays rigid. “And if her body rejects it?”
“It’s coated with proteins from Willow’s own stem cells. Her body will recognize it.”
I stare at the rotating image, fascinated. “And the procedure itself?”
Dr. Peters folds her hands. “You’ll be under for about eight hours. We’ll perform a sternotomy?—”
“They’ll cut through my breastbone,” I interject. “Standard for heart surgery.”
Cast’s tension is palpable, but Dr. Peters continues. “Once your heart is removed, the ArtCore-9 is attached with a more efficient connection system than traditional transplants.”
“Will I feel different?”
“Most patients don’t. It adjusts just like a natural heart.”
“There’s also an app,” Nurse Lindsey chimes in. “To monitor functions like heart rate and battery levels.”
Cast’s head snaps up. “Battery?”
“It’s kinetic—charged by movement. A backup battery lasts seven days at rest.”
“And if it malfunctions?”
“Redundant systems ensure that won’t happen,” Dr. Peters reassures. “And you’ll get alerts before anything becomes critical.”
Cast is still tense, but I press on. “Recovery time? ”
“ICU for 48-72 hours, a hospital stay of about a week. Most patients resume light activity in a month, full activity in three.”
Cast’s gaze sharpens. “Define full activity.”
Dr. Peters meets my eyes. “Everything you did before. Running, swimming, dancing—even better endurance.”
For the first time, hope flickers through my fear. “So I could be normal? For the first time?”
“That’s the goal,” Nurse Lindsey says warmly.
Cast exhales, but his voice remains firm. “What are the risks?”
“Infection, bleeding, anesthesia complications,” Dr. Peters lists. “Mechanical failure is rare, but rejection is unlikely with the synthetic tissue.”
“When will we know if it’s working?”
“Immediately. The heart starts functioning as soon as it’s connected. The tissue integration happens over six months.”
I hesitate before asking, “Scars?”
“A vertical line down your chest,” Nurse Lindsey answers. “It fades over time.”
Dr. Peters slides a tablet forward. “If you sign these, surgery is the day after tomorrow.”
I grip the stylus. My hands don’t shake. “Let’s do it.”
As Cast wheels me back to my room, I notice Damien standing outside, hands buried deep in his pockets. His brow is furrowed, eyes fixed on some distant point down the hallway, lost in thought. The harsh fluorescent lights cast shadows across his face, accentuating the tension in his jaw.
When he spots me approaching, his expression transforms instantly. The contemplative look melts away, replaced by a warm smile that reaches his eyes. He straightens up, pulling his hands from his pockets as he steps forward.
"There you are," he says, his voice softening as he approaches. He leans down and places a gentle kiss on my lips, his hand finding mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts with the worried look I'd caught moments before.
"How did it go?" he asks, his attention now fully on me, though I can still sense an undercurrent of whatever had been preoccupying him before I arrived.
“Perfect, my surgery is scheduled for the day after tomorrow six a.m. sharp!” I click my tongue, staring into his steely grey eyes.
Cast’s lips quirk at my enthusiasm, but it quickly is covered by his usual guarded expression, a flicker of hesitation before he masks it. “We’ll be ready.”
We. I don’t miss the way he says it, like this is just as much his battle as mine.
Before I can press him on whatever’s weighing him down, Damien’s voice cuts in from the side.
“Guess that means I’ve got less than forty-eight hours to convince you that you love me,” he teases, stepping into view with his usual lazy confidence. His intense eyes gleam with amusement, but I don’t miss the way they sweep over me, as if checking for any signs of distress .
I snort. “Ambitious. What’s the plan? Poetry? Serenades?”
“Both. Maybe even a grand gesture.” He smirks—damn it, he grins —tilting his head in that way that always makes me suspicious. “But if that doesn’t work, I’ll settle for keeping you entertained.”
Cast lets out an exaggerated sigh, slipping his hand around my neck and tilting my head backwards. “She’s already entertained enough. Isn’t that right, Carina?”
I smile into his grip, and he tightens lightly. “Sí, sir.”
Cast hums in approval and brushes my lips in a quick kiss.
Damien holds up his hands, grinning. “Hey, no need to be jealous, jefe .” Then he turns back to me, dropping the playful act just enough for his voice to soften. “Seriously though, don’t hate me, okay?”
The shift in his tone sends a chill down my spine. I narrow my eyes. “Why would I hate you?”
His smile lingers, but there’s unsteadiness behind it. “You’ll find out.”
Damien doesn’t give me a chance to press him for more. Instead, he grabs the wheelchair and starts pushing it toward my room like he’s on a mission.
My stomach tightens. I don’t trust that look on his face.
Cast sighs again, but this time it’s more exasperation than theatrics. “If he’s about to piss you off, tell me now so I can handle it.”
I shoot him a dry look. “When is Damien not about to piss me off?”
Cast chuckles, but his grip on me lingers a moment longer, his thumb brushing over my jaw like he’s committing the feel of me to memory. “Come on Carina, it can’t be that bad.”
“Trust me,” Damien whistles. “It’s bad.”
Damien pushes the wheelchair into my room, and the moment I see her, my entire body locks up.
My mother is sitting beside my bed, her thin hands folded in her lap, her face pale and drawn. She looks weaker than the last time I saw her—like whatever sickness is eating away at her has only gotten worse.
And I don’t care.
I can’t care.
I grip the arms of the wheelchair, my fingers digging in. “What the hell is this?” My voice is sharp, cutting through the sterile air of the room. I whip my head toward Damien, fury bubbling under my skin. “Who the hell said you could bring her here?”
Damien just leans against the wall, unfazed as always. “Figured you two should talk.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Talk? Now? After weeks of ignoring her?” I shake my head, my heart slamming against my ribs. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”
“She’s your mother, Willow.” His voice is still light, but there’s a weight behind it, a firmness that dares me to challenge him. “And you’re about to go into surgery. Didn’t seem right for you to do it without at least facing her first.”
I don’t miss the way Cast tenses beside me, the way his grip on the wheelchair’s handle tightens. He doesn’t like this either. Good. At least someone is on my side .
I snap my gaze to my mother, forcing myself to meet her eyes. They’re glassy, tired. The same as they’ve always been. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She exhales, a fragile motion, like even breathing is a struggle. “Willow?—”
“No.” My voice shakes, but I don’t let it falter. “I don’t want to hear it.”
A beat of silence stretches between us. Then Damien sighs, pushing off the wall and stepping toward the door. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
I whip my head toward him, my stomach twisting. “Don’t you dare ?—”
But the door clicks shut before I can finish, leaving me trapped in a room with the one person I never wanted to face again.
Octavia’s voice cracks slightly as she speaks again, the vulnerability in it raw. “I don’t have much time, Willow. I need to know you before it’s too late. I need to know the woman you’ve become, the person you are now.”
I feel the heat rise in my chest, the anger boiling over, hot and sharp. “You want to know me now? Whoop-dee-fucking-do.” My voice rises, louder than I intend, but I can’t hold it back. “You want to know me now that you’re dying? What do you think you’re gonna get out of that?”
Her eyes fill with regret, fear, desperation. “I know I messed up, Willow. I know I wasn’t there for you. But I can’t go, knowing I didn’t even try to?—”
“ No! ” The word rips from me, jagged and harsh. “You don’t get to waltz in here and pretend like you can just pick up where you left off. You left me to drown in my sorrow, and now, all of a sudden, you care? You care because you’re scared of dying, not because you ever give a damn about me.”
I can feel the tears starting to burn in my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not now. Not for her.
She stands, her frail body trembling, her hands shaking as she reaches for me. “Willow, please. Don’t do this. I’ve spent my whole life pushing you away, but I’m begging you—let me in now. I need to know my daughter before I’m gone. I’m begging you, please don’t shut me out. Not like this.”
“You don’t get to beg now!” My voice cracks, the words slipping out in a choked sob. I shake my head, anger and hurt pouring out of me in waves. “You made your choices! You chose everything over me, over us ! And now you think you can just decide to be a mother when you’re about to die? You don’t get to come in here and try to make up for all the years you took from me.”
I stand, fists clenched at my sides, feeling the rage boil over like lava, too hot to control. “I don’t need you. I never needed you. ”
Octavia’s face crumples, her frail body trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “I never wanted to leave you, Willow. I didn’t know how to be the mother you needed.”
“Bullshit,” I hiss.
“No, it’s the truth.” Her voice wavers and I almost feel a need to pull her into my chest and hold her. “Your father never wanted you to know this, but there was a time you wouldn’t stop crying. You were three or four, and I was exhausted.”
My blood runs cold but I don’t say anything, not yet .
“I was so tired. You wouldn’t sleep. You wouldn’t eat. You just screamed and screamed. So I-”
“You what?” I snarl through my teeth.
“I locked you in the bathroom, and went on a walk.” She nods to herself, like she has practiced this story millions of times.
“For how long?” I whisper, afraid of the answer.
“Three days.” She chokes out as if it hurts and I gasp, clutching my chest.
“You locked me in a room for three fucking days?!” I scream.
“I couldn’t do it, Willow. Your father found you after he got back from a work trip, and I tried to repent. I tried to be a mother, but I don’t have that gene.” Tears rush down her cheeks like a storm and I shake at the words. “I had postpartum depression after you were born. I was so disconnected from myself and you.”
“You had postpartum?” I whisper, my voice cracking as I finally look into her eyes.
She nods slowly, her face twisted in pain. “We thought that was all it was. I hated the way I looked. I couldn’t connect with you. I didn’t know how, but then the depression lasted for years, and there were moments of happiness but for the most part I felt nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means don’t you think I hate myself for leaving you? Don’t you think I hate myself enough for the both of us? I tried, okay? I tried.” She inhales sharply. “I came back so many times. I tried to get help, and then one day I felt nothing, Willow. ”
“Nothing?” I question looking down at my thick tan brown hospital socks.
“I mean one day I got up and I didn’t love me, your dad, you, life.” She shakes her head. “It was scary. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Mom, what are you telling me?”
Her voice cracks as she continues. “It was like everything inside me just... shut off. I didn’t feel anything. Not love, not anger, not even sadness. Just this empty void. It’s called Dysthymia. It’s a depression that doesn’t let you live, doesn’t let you feel anything the way you’re supposed to.” She chokes on the words, trying to hold herself together but failing.
I stand frozen, her words hitting me like a wave I didn’t expect, drowning me in their weight. My hands tremble at my sides, the anger still there, but now, it's tangled with empathy.
"You—" My voice catches. "You’ve been living like this? For years ?"
She nods, her eyes downcast as she clutches at her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. “It’s been my whole life, Willow. And I’m not asking for your forgiveness now. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know. I need you to know that I wasn’t just neglecting you because I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I couldn’t even care about myself.” Her hands shake as she wipes at her face, but the tears keep coming. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d have a better life without me dragging you down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” The question escapes me before I can stop it, the hurt in my voice so raw, I don’t recognize it. “Why couldn’t you tell me that then —when I needed you most? ”
Octavia stares at me, her eyes dark with regret. “I was too ashamed. I was too far gone by the time I realized it wasn’t just me. You deserved more than the scraps I could give you. And I didn’t think I could ever fix it.”
A heavy silence falls between us, and I feel the truth of her words sinking in. Slowly, like the pressure of a thousand years finally breaking through a wall I’d built around myself.
“I don’t know how to feel about any of this,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I spent my whole life hating you. Needing you, and you never showed up. Now, you’re telling me you couldn’t show up because you were broken? I don’t know what to do with that.”
She takes a step forward, her frail form shaky but determined. “I know, Willow. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But I’m asking you for a chance. Not to fix things—I know I can’t do that. But maybe... maybe we can try to be friends . Even if it's just for now.”
I look at her, the woman who gave birth to me, the woman who hurt me more than I could ever explain, and I feel something I don’t expect: softness .
“I-I have to think about it,” I whisper. “I can’t. I just-”
“Sleep on it, baby. I can live with whatever choice you make.”