Curse Reverses on Sterling

The fluorescent lights of Seattle General Hospital buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting everyone beneath them in a sickly, unforgiving glow. I stared at Mr. Harrison's perfectly knotted tie, unable to meet his eyes as his words crashed over me like icy water.

"I'm afraid we need a payment of $150,000 within the week, Ms. Brooks," he said, his voice clinically detached. "Otherwise, we'll have to cancel your mother's surgery."

My throat constricted. "There must be something—"

"We've already extended every possible courtesy." He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, glancing at his tablet. "Your insurance coverage is exhausted, and the payment plans you've proposed don't meet our minimum requirements."

I wanted to scream, to grab him by his starched collar and demand how he could reduce my mother's life to a dollar amount. Instead, I swallowed hard, nodding mechanically as he continued detailing the administrative process of canceling life-saving procedures.

When he finally walked away, his leather shoes clicking efficiently down the corridor, I slumped against the wall. One week. Seven days to produce a sum that would take me years to earn.

I pushed open the door to my mother's room, forcing my face into something resembling calm. She lay there, skin nearly translucent against the white sheets, dark circles beneath her eyes like bruises. Once vibrant and full of life, Eleanor Brooks had been reduced to a collection of fragile bones and failing organs.

"Natalie," she whispered, her cracked lips attempting a smile. "You look tired, sweetheart."

Even now, dying, she worried about me. I crossed the room and took her hand, so thin I could feel each delicate bone beneath the skin.

"I'm fine, Mom," I lied, squeezing gently. "Just working a lot."

"You work too hard." Her fingers tightened weakly around mine. "You should be painting, living your life..."

"I'll have plenty of time for that," I said, the words sticking in my throat. "After you get better."

She didn't argue, but something in her eyes told me she knew better. We both pretended, though—me that I could somehow find the money, her that she had time to wait.

* * *

Three nights later, exhaustion hit me like a physical blow. I'd been working double shifts at the Magnolia Grand Hotel, picking up every available hour while applying for emergency loans that were swiftly denied. Each rejection pushed me closer to despair.

I was crossing the lobby with a stack of fresh towels when the room suddenly tilted. The marble floor rushed up to meet me, but instead of the hard impact I expected, something caught me—someone.

"Careful," a voice murmured, low and cultured.

I blinked, disoriented, and found myself looking into the most unsettling eyes I'd ever seen. Pale gray, almost silver, they assessed me with clinical interest. The man supporting me was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than six months of my rent.

"I'm so sorry, sir," I stammered, mortified as I regained my footing. The towels lay scattered