Chapter 5 - The Desolate Room
The interior of Clara and Rosie's apartment was a stark, heartbreaking contrast to the grand, perfectly curated rooms of Alexander’s Victorian estate across town.
There was no heat to speak of; a small, clicking electric space heater sat plugged into the hallway outlet, glowing with a faint orange coil that barely took the chill out of the air. The furniture consisted of a sagging plaid sofa with stuffing spilling from one arm, a folding card table serving as a dining desk, and a stack of cardboard boxes used as bookshelves.
Yet, despite the poverty, the place was obsessively clean. The linoleum floor was scrubbed spotless. A row of school notebooks sat neatly stacked on the card table, crayons organized by color in an old coffee tin.
Alexander carried Clara down the narrow hallway and gently laid her down on a narrow twin bed in the back bedroom. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, every intake accompanied by a frightening, wet rattle in her chest.
Rosie stood in the doorway, clutching the edge of the doorframe so tightly her knuckles were white. Her lower lip trembled, but she refused to cry. She had the look of a child who had grown up too fast, forced to shoulder adult terrors long before her shoulders were broad enough.
"Is she going to die?" Rosie asked, her voice flat, small, and devastatingly direct.
Alexander straightened up, turning to face the little girl. He walked over, knelt down in front of her, and placed a warm, steady hand on her small shoulder.
"No, Rosie," Alexander said, looking straight into her dark, terrified eyes with absolute, unwavering conviction. "Your mom is not going to die. Not on my watch."
He stood back up, pulled out his smartphone, and dialed a number he rarely used for personal matters—his private physician, Dr. Harrison, a man who kept discreet hours and answered calls from wealthy patrons at any hour of the day or night.
"Harrison," Alexander said the moment the line connected, cutting off any polite greeting. "I need you at 414 Elm Street, Apartment 3B. Right now. Bring your portable diagnostic kit and an IV setup for severe dehydration and acute respiratory infection."
"Alexander? Is that you? What's going on—"
"Don't ask questions, Harrison. Just get in your car. I'll make it worth your while, triple your standard emergency fee. Move."
He hung up before the doctor could protest.
Alexander turned back to Rosie, who was watching him with a mixture of awe and suspicion. "Do you have any warm water?"
"The... the hot water in the tap works sometimes," Rosie whispered, pointing toward the tiny kitchen. "If you let it run for ten minutes."
"Go get a clean washcloth from the bathroom, Rosie," Alexander instructed gently. "I'm going to cool your mom's forehead down while we wait for the doctor."
For the next twenty minutes, Alexander moved through the cold apartment like a general taking command of a besieged outpost. He found an old woolen blanket in the hallway closet, draped it over Clara’s shivering body, and used the warm damp cloth to wipe the fever sweat from her temples. Clara murmured unintelligibly in her sleep, her cheeks flushed with a dangerous, burning heat.
When Dr. Harrison finally arrived—hauling a heavy medical bag up the creaking stairs, looking thoroughly bewildered to find Milbrook’s most reclusive millionaire in a rundown tenement—Alexander waved him straight into the bedroom.
"She's had a fever for four days," Alexander briefed the doctor quietly as Harrison pulled out his stethoscope. "She collapsed on the front steps just now. Listen to her lungs."
Harrison pressed the cold metal disc against Clara's chest, his brow furrowing deeper with every passing second. He lifted his head, shooting a grim look at Alexander. "Severe double pneumonia. Her lungs are filling up with fluid, and she's dangerously dehydrated. If you hadn't called me within the next twelve hours, Hale... she wouldn't have survived the night."
Rosie, who had crept into the bedroom and stood quietly by the door, let out a sharp, choked gasp. She slapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes spilling over with tears she could no longer hold back.
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Alexander didn't hesitate. He stepped across the room, scooped Rosie up into his arms, and buried her face against his chest so she wouldn't have to watch as Dr. Harrison prepped the IV needle.
"She's going to be okay, Rosie," Alexander whispered into the little girl's hair, his own voice cracking slightly. "I promise you. I'm taking care of everything."
