If exposure stops now, and if treatment begins immediately, there is a real chance we can recover a meaningful amount of her sight.”
Marcus’s knees weakened so sharply he had to sit down.
He looked at Lila in the hospital bed, small hands folded over the blanket, lashes resting against cheeks that had been too pale for months.
Not fate.
Not illness.
Not some cruel random tragedy.
Someone had been doing this.
Someone he had married.
Lila was admitted that night under a private name.
Dr.
Mensah began treatment immediately, and Marcus did not leave her room except when the doctors forced him to eat or sign forms.
Near midnight, when the machines were quieter and the city lights trembled beyond the glass, Lila turned her face toward him.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here.”
“Am I in trouble?”
The question hit him harder than anything else.
He bent over her bed and kissed her forehead.
“No, sweetheart.
You did nothing wrong.
Nothing.”
She reached for his sleeve.
“Will it stay dark?”
Marcus had negotiated with governments without hesitation.
He had no idea how to answer that question without breaking.
“We’re going to fight for the light,” he said, and it was the only promise he trusted himself to make.
By morning, the investigation had widened.
Marcus’s personal attorney, a severe and loyal woman named Helen Crowe, arrived with a face that told him she had already found something terrible.
Months earlier, after a cardiac scare on an international flight, Marcus had revised his estate plan.
The majority of his holdings would be placed into an irrevocable trust for Lila.
