Too Late For Regret, Mr. Booth

The waiting room at Dr. Alistair Frye's private clinic smelled of antiseptic and old money, the two scents so intertwined in Manhattan's medical elite that Elise could no longer distinguish them. She sat with Heaven's file clutched against her chest, her fingers tracing the embossed letters of the clinic's name while her daughter dozed against her shoulder.

Two nurses passed behind her, their voices pitched for gossip rather than professionalism.

"-entire VIP wing, can you imagine? The Booth trust fund basically bought the hospital's cardiac department."

"For the fiancée's kids, though. Not even his own blood."

"Doesn't matter. You saw him yesterday. Those boys could ask for the moon and he'd find a way to deliver it."

Elise's nails dug into the file folder. The cardboard bent, threatened to tear.

"Mrs. Preston?" The receptionist's voice cut through her rage. "Dr. Frye will see you now."

She gathered Heaven and walked through the door that separated the hopeful from the helped, the desperate from the saved. The office beyond was exactly what she'd expected-mahogany and leather, diplomas from institutions that rejected a thousand applicants for every acceptance, the accumulated weight of a reputation built on saving children other doctors had given up on.

Dr. Alistair Frye looked up from his computer screen. He was seventy, perhaps, his hair white and wild, his eyes the color of faded denim and sharp as scalpels.

"Sit." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "The child can use the examination couch. She looks tired."

Heaven climbed up without prompting, her small body curling into the leather with the automatic adjustment of a child who'd spent too many hours in medical environments. Elise sat rigid, her file extended like an offering.

"Dr. Frye. I've reviewed your work on hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Your paper on the hybrid procedure in 2019-"

"I know my CV, Mrs. Preston." He took the file, began to page through it. His expression didn't change as he read, but something in his posture shifted, a subtle straightening that suggested interest. "Complex case. Multiple defects. The pulmonary stenosis alone-"

"You can fix it." Elise leaned forward. "I've researched everything. Your success rate, your techniques, the equipment you have access to. Name your price. I'll pay double. Triple. Whatever it takes."

Frye closed the file. His eyes met hers, and she saw the regret there before he spoke.

"I can't take the case."

The words didn't register. They were English, they were clear, but they refused to arrange themselves into meaning.

"What?"

"It's not a matter of compensation." Frye set the file on his desk, his hand resting on it with something like tenderness. "The Booth Trust's endowment gives them priority access to my surgical schedule. It's booked solid for the next two years with their cases and follow-ups. Legally, I can't bump a contracted patient for a new one, no matter the urgency. My hands are tied."

Elise's voice emerged from a throat that felt packed with glass. "You're telling me that because some billionaire bought your loyalty, my daughter has to die?"

"I'm telling you that my team and I are bound by a contract that would see us all lose our licenses if we breach it." Frye's jaw tightened. "The trust fund's endowment built this clinic. Their lawyers wrote the contracts. Violating the priority clause is professional suicide for every person on my staff."

"Then let me talk to him." Elise was standing, she realized, her hands flat on his desk, her body leaning into his space. "Callum Booth. I'll beg. I'll grovel. I'll tell him-"

"Mrs. Preston." Frye's voice was gentle, terrible. "The only person who can release me from this contract is Callum Booth himself. And from what I understand, he is not... accessible to petitioners."

Elise looked at Heaven. At her daughter's sleeping face, the blue-tinged lips, the visible pulse in her throat that beat too fast, too hard, struggling against architecture that would eventually fail.

She thought of Jacob Booth. Of the boy with Callum's eyes and Jaida's name, who built cathedrals from plastic bricks and spoke of performance like it was a weapon.

She thought of the charity auction tonight. The MoMA event she'd planned to avoid, the crowd she'd intended to evade, the man she'd sworn never to approach again.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Frye."

She gathered Heaven in her arms and walked out of the office, out of the clinic, into the gray November afternoon. On the sidewalk, she set her daughter down and pulled out her phone.

"Margaret? It's Elise. I need a dress. Tonight. Something that will make him remember everything he threw away."

She looked up at the sky, at the clouds that promised snow, at the city that had taken everything from her and still demanded more.

"And I need a plan," she added. "To make a man regret every breath he's taken since I disappeared."