"I don't understand. We handled everything exactly as protocol dictated, and then some. We took care of everything they wanted. On Thanksgiving weekend, for Christ's sake."
"Apparently not. Charles Branson mentioned something about bedside manner during overnight care." Pope's sigh carries through the phone. "The details aren't important now. What matters is the three million dollars that just vanished from next quarter's projections."
My throat tightens. "What about the patients we already have enrolled? The clinic schedule for Liberty Heights starts next week."
"The board will be meeting on Thursday to reassess priorities." He pauses, the silence heavy with what he isn't saying. "I suggest you prepare alternative funding proposals. Or a restructuring plan that requires fewer staff."
Fewer staff. My staff. My program.
"I understand." My voice remains professional while my mind races through the implications. Without this position, without this salary...
"Good. I'll need those proposals by tonight if you can pull them together so I can turn them around for the board."
"I'll put off everything I'm working on now to focus on this."
The call ends, and I stare at my computer screen. If I lose this job, Palm Beach becomes impossible. Chicago's market might welcome me back, but that would mean taking Beckett away from Warren, right when he's finally connecting with his father.
Right when we're starting to feel like a family.
I have about ten hours to figure out how I'll convince Pope this program is worth saving. Otherwise, I could be out of a job and a viable way to stay in Palm Beach.
I roll up my sleeves and dive into the spreadsheets, praying there’s a way to keep this alive.
The spreadsheet blurs on my laptop screen, numbers dancing after five hours of desperate financial gymnastics.My eyes burn and my neck aches from hunching over, trying to save my program on paper.
How do you trim one point eight million dollars when you’ve already cut it to the bone?
A knock pulls me out of the numbers. I glance at the clock. How is it already six thirty?
"Come in," I call.
The door opens slowly and I blink in surprise. Warren stands there in his suit, a slim leather portfolio under one arm.
“I was dropping off some things for tomorrow’s board meeting,” he says. “Figured I’d check if you were still chained to your desk.”
“Guilty.” My laugh is brittle.
He steps in, gaze sweeping the papers scattered across my desk. “Is Beckett with your parents?”
"Yeah, my mom picks him up from preschool, and they hang out until I get off. I didn't mean to work so late. Of course, I have shit that can't wait."
"Want me to get him for you?"
“No, I'm packing up. But maybe you can come by?” I mutter, quickly replacing my furrowed brow with a smile.
He lifts the bag in his hand. “Okay, I'll do that. I brought cookies. The kind Beckett demolished last time.”
Warmth flickers in my chest despite the storm in my head. “He’ll love that.”
Warren studies me for a beat too long. “You okay?”
I hesitate, then hear myself ask, “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
I exhale, pressing my palms flat on the desk to ground myself. “The Bransons pulled. Even after everything—flying in that specialist for their son, the whole dog-and-pony show on Thanksgiving weekend.”
His brow furrows. “That’s disappointing. But they’ll find other donors. These things happen.”