Chapter 10 #2
I wanted to refuse. Every instinct I had screamed to refuse—to prove I didn't need him, didn't need his money or his resources or his careful orchestration of my life.
But Brian's voice echoed in my head: Take what's useful and leave the rest.
"Fine." The word tasted bitter.
Relief flickered across his face. "Good. I'll arrange for a driver to take you to the hospital. A security guard will accompany you—discreet, professional. You won't even notice he's there."
A driver. A security guard. My life, neatly managed by Charles Rothwell once again.
I exhaled slowly. "Only until this is resolved."
"You have my word." He held my gaze. "Once the Langs are dealt with, I'll call it off. No arguments."
I studied him for a moment, looking for the catch. The loophole. The fine print he'd exploit later.
I didn't find it. That didn't mean it wasn't there.
"Okay." I stood, tucking the folder under my arm. "The information is helpful. Thank you."
He stood too, and for a moment we just looked at each other. Father and daughter, separated by a table and fourteen years of silence.
"I'll be in touch," I said. "If I need more."
"Anytime." His voice was quieter now. "I mean that, Ava. Anytime."
I nodded. Turned to leave. At the edge of the table, I paused.
"Goodbye, Dad."
"Goodbye, sweetheart."
The word hit somewhere I wasn't expecting. I didn't look back.
The folder was heavy in my hands as I walked out into the Midtown sun. Evidence. Ammunition. A weapon I hadn't expected.
My father wanted redemption.
I wasn't ready to give him that. Not yet.
But maybe, someday, I could try.
The next morning, Brian was coming off shift, and I was going in for mine. I texted him:
Ava
My father's arranging a car to take me to and from work. Long story. Go straight home after your shift—I'll explain tonight.
Brian
You okay?
Ava
I'm fine. Tell you later.
The ER was chaos—a multi-car pileup on the BQE had flooded us with patients, and I hit the ground running before I'd even changed into fresh scrubs.
Three hours later, the rush finally ebbed. I found myself in the hallway outside Bay 4, catching my breath, when Dr. Park emerged from the room behind me.
"Family's ready," he said.
I nodded and pushed through the door.
The patient was a man in his forties with broken ribs and a nasty laceration above his eye, but stable. Lucky. His wife sat in the chair beside him, their teenage daughter pressed against her shoulder. Both had been crying. Mascara smudged under the wife's eyes, the daughter's face blotchy and raw.
"He's going to be fine," I said. "Ribs will take time to heal, and he'll need to take it easy for a few weeks, but there's no internal bleeding. No complications."
The wife's hand flew to her mouth. The daughter made a sound—something between a sob and a laugh.
"Thank you," the wife whispered. "Thank you so much."
I watched them reach for him. The wife took his hand, careful of the IV. The daughter leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder. He murmured something I couldn't hear, and they both smiled through their tears.
A family. Whole. Still together.
I stepped out before my face could betray me.
In the hallway, I leaned against the wall. Let the weight settle.
Derek Edwards didn't get this moment. His family didn't get to hear he's going to be fine. They got a body in the morgue and six months of nothing—no answers, no justice, no closure.
Because Kevin Lang drove drunk and killed their seventeen-year-old son.
And his father made it go away.
They deserved to know the truth.
They deserved justice.
And I was the one who had to make sure they got it.
I pushed off the wall. My hands were steady. They always were. The rest of me would catch up later.
The page from Dr. Park came just as I was finishing my notes on the pileup patients.
My office. Now.
I found him behind his desk, expression unreadable. He wasn't alone—a man in a charcoal suit sat in the chair across from him, leather briefcase at his feet, the kind of polished calm that meant expensive lawyer.
"Dr. Rothwell." Park gestured to the empty chair. "Sit down."
I sat. The lawyer turned, and I caught the logo embossed on his briefcase. Gold letters. Rothwell & Associates.
A cold weight settled low in my gut.
"Dr. Rothwell." The lawyer's voice was smooth and professional. "I'm Lawrence Webb, from your father's firm. Mr. Rothwell asked me to handle your case personally."
"My case." The words came out flat.
"The complaint filed against your medical license." Webb opened his briefcase and withdrew a slim folder. "Your father asked me to take point on this personally."
I looked at Park. His expression gave nothing away.
"I've reviewed the filing," Webb continued, flipping through the documents."The timeline alone raises red flags—the complaint was submitted within forty-eight hours of Kevin Lang's arrest, by someone with documented ties to the Lang family's business interests."
"The hearing is still scheduled," I said. It wasn't a question.
"For now, yes. But I'll be filing a motion to postpone pending a full investigation into the complaint's origin.
The Medical Board takes fraudulent filings seriously.
" He met my eyes. "This won't be quick, Dr. Rothwell.
These things rarely are. But I want you to know that you have competent representation now. You're not facing this alone."
The words should have felt like relief. Instead, they felt like a trap closing—comfortable, padded with good intentions, but a trap nonetheless.
"I didn't ask for this."
"No." Webb's voice remained even. "But Mr. Rothwell anticipated you might need it. And he has resources the Langs don't expect."
Resources. My father's favorite weapon.
The word he used when he meant I own the solution and now you owe me.
"Dr. Park," I said, keeping my eyes on the desk. "Did you know about this?"
"I was informed this morning." Park's voice was neutral. "I agreed it was in your best interest."
Representation I hadn't asked for. Arranged by a father I hadn't spoken to in years. Another piece of my life was managed without my input.
But the alternative wasn’t better. The hospital's malpractice carrier would have assigned a panel attorney who met me twenty minutes before my deposition. Someone juggling forty other cases, focused strictly on the medical records, barely remembering my name.
My father was giving me someone who would actually pay attention. Someone who had the time and resources to build a real defense—not just check boxes.
Take what's useful and leave the rest.
"Fine," I said. "Thank you, Mr. Webb. Keep me informed."
Webb nodded, collected his briefcase, and stood. "I'll be in touch as things develop. We have a strong case, Dr. Rothwell. It's just going to take time to build it properly."
He left. Park and I sat in silence for a moment.
"Your father," Park said finally. "I take it the reunion wasn't entirely your idea."
"Nothing with my father is ever my idea."
Park almost smiled. Almost. "He seems to care about you."
"He cares about control. I just happen to be the thing he wants to control."
"Mm." Park stood and moved toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame. "For what it's worth, Rothwell. Backup isn't weakness. Even when the backup is complicated."
He left before I could respond.
I sat in his empty office, the weight of my father's help pressing down on me, and tried to decide how much of it I could accept.
Brian was in the kitchen when I got back. Garlic and olive oil. Something sizzling. The apartment smelled like someone actually lived here. Watson sat on the counter, flagrant rule violation, watching the proceedings like a health inspector.
"Hey." Brian glanced over his shoulder, spatula in hand. "How was it?"
I dropped onto the couch, letting my bag slide to the floor. "Complicated."
He turned off the burner, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and came to sit beside me. Not too close. Just close enough.
"The meeting with your dad?"
"That. And everything else." I pulled my feet up, tucking them beneath me. "My father's firm is handling the medical license case. He sent one of his lawyers to the hospital today."
Brian's eyebrows rose. "That sounds like good news."
"Is it?" I stared at the ceiling. "He didn't even ask. Just... handled it. The way he always does. As if my choices don't matter as long as the outcome is what he thinks is best."
"But the outcome is good. Your license is safe."
"I know. I know that." I pressed my palms against my eyes. "I just... I spent fourteen years building a life he had no part in. Proving I didn't need him. And now he's in every corner of this thing. He's even arranged for a car to drive me everywhere. With a security detail."
Brian blinked. "Security detail?"
"Yeah." I dropped my hands and looked at him. "So I guess you don't have to take me to and from work anymore."
"I'm going to miss that." The words slipped out, unfiltered. He heard himself say them and went still.
I looked at him. He looked back, and for a half-second, the mask slipped. Something raw. Something that made my pulse trip.
I tried not to think about what that meant.
Failed.
"Anyway." I pushed past the moment like it was a crack in the sidewalk. Step over. Keep walking.
"The evidence against the Langs, my career, my safety—he's got his hands in all of it now. I feel like I'm losing ground I fought for years to gain."
Brian was quiet for a moment. Then: "Can I say something?"
"You're going to anyway."
His mouth twitched. "You've been doing things alone for a long time, Ava.
Fighting your own battles. Carrying everything yourself.
That's how you survived. I get it. But maybe.
.." He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Maybe accepting help doesn't mean you lost. Maybe it just means you're not fighting solo anymore. "
"It feels like failure."
"I know. But your father isn't the only one in this with you. Shane and Maya are in this. Garrett's tracking down evidence. Sloane Harper's going to meet us about the case. I'm—" He stopped.
"You're what?"
"I'm here." His voice was simple. Steady. "Whatever you need. However long this takes. I'm not going anywhere."
I looked at him, this man who'd rearranged his entire life to keep me safe, who checked under my car every morning and varied our routes and made me dinner like it was his responsibility.
"What matters right now is taking the danger off the table," he said. "We get through this. We make sure the Langs can't hurt you. And then we figure out everything else. Your dad, your career, whatever comes next, we deal with it after. One thing at a time."
"Spoken like a true firefighter."
He grinned. "We're simple creatures. See problem. Fix problem. Eat dinner."
I laughed despite myself. "Is that what's burning on the stove?"
"Shit." He was up and across the kitchen before I could blink, rescuing whatever he'd been cooking from the edge of disaster. Watson meowed reproachfully.
I watched him move. Confident, capable, completely unfazed by the small catastrophe. The tightness behind my sternum eased, just enough to take a full breath.
He was right. I'd been doing this alone for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to have people in my corner. Real people. Not obligations. Not transactions.
The fear was still there. The sense that the other shoe was about to drop. But underneath the fear, something stubborn had taken root.
Hope.
Fragile and unfamiliar, but there.
Brian emerged from the kitchen with two plates of slightly charred pasta, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Dinner is served. Only minimally burned."
"My hero."
"I do what I can."
We ate on the couch, Watson weaving between us, begging for scraps we both pretended not to give him. The city hummed outside the windows. The night settled around us, quiet and almost peaceful.
Tomorrow, I'd deal with my father's lawyers. Tomorrow, I'd face whatever the Langs threw at me next.
But tonight, I had this. Brian's shoulder was warm against mine. Watson's purr vibrated against my ankles. The simple comfort of not being alone.
For now, it was enough.