He knew that voice.
He turned slowly and found himself face-to-face with a man in a flawless charcoal suit.
It was Glenn Marks.
His face gave nothing away, but behind his expensive glasses his eyes were sharp and cold. He no longer looked like the lawyer who had once represented a heartbroken wife. He looked like a man who handled corporations and won.
Marks stepped closer. “Dr. Parker,” he said evenly. “I can’t say I expected to see you here again. Certainly not in this building.”
Ethan swallowed. “You… remember me?”
A faint smile touched the lawyer’s mouth. “Occupational habit. I don’t forget people who once had a chance to do the right thing and chose otherwise.”
He nodded to the receptionist. “It’s fine, Elena. I’ll handle this.”
Then he gestured toward a private seating area.
Ethan perched on the edge of a sofa, tense as wire. Marks sat across from him with easy confidence. “So,” the lawyer said, “what brings you here after all this time? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to repay that six hundred thousand after all.”
“No,” Ethan said quickly. “It’s my health. I’m very sick.”
“I know,” Marks said.
Ethan stared. “How?”
“Ms. Lane contacted us yesterday after receiving your messages. She filled us in. The overseas treatment. The cost. The urgency.”
Ethan nearly choked. So Valerie knew he was coming. He had walked straight into a trap of his own making.
“Can I see Valerie?” he asked quietly. “She… she won’t turn me away. She helps people.”
Marks said nothing for a moment. He simply studied him. Then he picked up a glossy brochure from the table and slid it across the glass.
It was the foundation’s corporate booklet. Ethan opened it with unsteady hands. There, in clean print, was the mission statement.
And beneath it, the flagship program.
“Project Spark: full coverage for life-saving procedures for promising medical professionals.”
He looked up, desperate. “If that program exists, then Valerie can approve my treatment?”
Marks leaned back. He let the silence stretch before answering in a cool, measured tone. “You’re correct. The foundation exists to save lives. But we have a process.”
“What process? I’ll do whatever it takes.”
The corners of Marks’ mouth moved just slightly. “Excellent. Then go to reception and request an application.”
“For what?” Ethan asked.
“For aid,” Marks said. “The standard grant form. You’ll need to complete every section, attach proof of low-income status, a full credit report, your physician’s findings, and letters from your employer. Once the file is reviewed, the committee will make a decision.”
Ethan stopped breathing for a second. Proof of low-income status? He—a surgeon whose face had appeared in hospital brochures—was supposed to go stand in line at a county office and prove he was broke?
