He Accused Me Of Stealing But I Heard The Truth Chapter 02
The attending physician returned, interrupting us.
“Derek, Erin, Maisie’s lung infection is worsening. We’re transferring her to an isolation ICU room immediately and starting plasma exchange.”
He set a treatment plan on the table.
“There’s a protein drug that may help target her immune pathway, but it’s still classified as a special-use medication. Insurers usually deny it at first. The hospital won’t stop emergency treatment, but the supplier will need a payment guarantee, and we’ll need a funding source arranged for the rest of her stay as soon as possible.”
My fingers dug into the hem of my threadbare coat.
I had barely enough money for a few days’ food. My credit cards were maxed out. And because we had moved between temporary addresses, Maisie’s Medicaid and our SNAP benefits were both under review.
Rachel drew a soft, sympathetic breath.
“Her relocation fund was enough to cover years of treatment. No matter how recklessly that man spent money, he shouldn’t have left a child without medicine.”
I didn’t look at her.
“Is there a substitute medication we can use first?” I asked the doctor. “I’ll find a social worker. I’ll reapply for Medicaid. I’ll do it today.”
“Find money?”
Derek looked down at me.
“The man you left me for won’t even pay for his daughter’s treatment?”
He stepped closer.
“You want me to sign the payment guarantee? Fine.”
“Beg me.”
[Just tug on my sleeve. Call me Derek. That’s all it would take.]
[Tell me you need me. I’ll pay for everything. Just stop looking at the door like you’re about to run again.]
I looked at him and almost laughed.
The woman I used to be would have fought him to the bitter end.
But now Maisie was in intensive care, where I couldn’t even see her through the glass.
I closed my eyes and my knees began to buckle.
“Derek, please—”
“That’s enough.”
His composure cracked. He caught my arm and hauled me to my feet.
He pulled a card from his suit jacket and handed it to the hospital’s finance director.
“Guarantee the payment to the supplier. Put the rest of her costs on this, too.”
Just as the finance director reached for the card, a manicured hand clamped down on Derek’s wrist.
“You can’t do this.”
Rachel’s eyes were brimming with tears.
“This will become a bottomless pit. She took money that should have covered housing and medical care, and now she claims she can’t even afford medication. Don’t you think that’s a little too convenient?”
She looked at me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Today it’s treatment. Tomorrow it’ll be a house. After that, shares in Weston Group. Once she and that painter realize the child is your weakness, they’ll keep using her to bleed you dry.”
Derek’s hand froze in midair.
Rachel pressed her advantage. “Have you forgotten what she did before? I’m allergic to cashews. She knew that, and she still put cashew syrup in my drink. I almost died in the ER, and she never admitted it.”
“Everything she says requires proof. Even this child’s medical history could have been fabricated with someone else.”
I watched as Derek slowly slid the card back into his pocket.
This wasn’t the first time Rachel had made a decision for him.
In the three years I’d lived in Derek’s apartment, every expense went through the financial system she had built.
When my morning sickness was so severe the doctor recommended prescription vitamins, Rachel refused reimbursement, stating it wasn’t covered by insurance and was therefore a personal choice.
When my feet swelled so badly I couldn’t fit into my shoes for work, I applied for a cheap pair of flats. She replied that since I could work from home, they weren’t necessary.
That same week, she expensed a limited-edition handbag under “client hospitality.” It was approved automatically. To buy one pair of shoes that wouldn’t shred my feet, I had to upload a doctor’s note.
I took the rejected request to Derek.
He was staring at his computer and never looked up.
“Rachel has a finance background. She knows how to manage money. Don’t interrupt my meeting over a pair of shoes.”
He never once asked why I needed Rachel’s permission just to buy shoes.
And he wasn’t asking now.
“Rachel’s right.” Derek looked at me. “I can’t trust you.”
His lawyer placed a document on the table.
“If you want me to cover the costs, you’ll sign this consent order. We establish paternity, then I petition Cook County family court for sole legal decision-making authority and primary residential custody. During the court’s review, Maisie stays where I place her. You get supervised visitation only.”
“Sign, or find your own payment guarantee.”