The aisle of the Boeing 737 felt narrower than it should have. Damon Prescott—a man whose presence alone could clear a boardroom of multi-million-dollar investors—found himself standing awkwardly beside row twenty-eight, pinned by the collective, curious stares of half the economy cabin.

Damon didn't even look at it. His eyes were locked on Cassandra, who was watching the glowing screen with a strange, melancholic expression.

“You need to answer that,” Cassandra said quietly, stepping back from his touch. Her voice was steady now, armor sliding back into place. “Your future is ringing.”

“My future is standing right in front of me,” Damon replied without hesitation.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Damon. That’s Merritt Systems. That’s the deal you’ve been bleeding for over the last nine months.” Cassandra walked over to the sofa where Luke was half-asleep, playing quietly with the grey elephant. She scooped the little boy up into her arms, balancing him alongside his sleeping sister. “Where is the guest room? I want to put them to bed.”

Damon stared at her, feeling a cold knot twist in his stomach. She was shutting down again—retreating behind that impenetrable wall of self-preservation.

“Marcus!” Damon called out.

The driver appeared instantly from the hallway.

“Show Ms. Hayes to the master guest suite,” Damon ordered, his tone brokers-no-argument. “And make sure there’s warm milk and everything else she needs.”

Cassandra didn't argue. She turned and walked down the long, dimly lit hallway without looking back.

When the heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, Damon finally walked over to the coffee table and picked up the phone. He pressed accept.

“Nora.”

“Damon! Thank God,” Nora’s voice practically shrieked through the speaker. “It’s midnight. Merritt’s board is on the line. Calder’s representative just raised their bid by fifty million, but the CEO said if you sign right now—digitally—they’ll honor our original terms. Where are you? Are you signing or not?”

Damon looked down the hallway toward the master suite. He thought about his sister, who had died in a cold, underequipped hospital room twenty-five years ago. He thought about the neonatal data platform that could save thousands of babies just like her across rural America.

It was his life’s work. It was the altar he had sacrificed everything upon.

“Damon? Did you drop the call?” Nora demanded.

“Nora,” Damon said smoothly, his voice dropping into that chillingly calm executive tone that had terrorized competitors for years. “Tell Merritt’s board that Prescott Technologies is withdrawing its bid.”

Silence stretched across the line for five full seconds.

“...You’re doing what?” Nora whispered, horror dripping from every syllable. “Damon, are you insane? You’re walking away from seven hundred and eighty million dollars? You’re handing the entire medical data platform to Calder?”

“I’m handing nothing to Calder,” Damon corrected coldly. “Draft a press release for 8:00 AM. Announce that Prescott Technologies is launching a fully independent, non-profit pediatric initiative funded entirely by my personal holdings. We’re building our own platform—better, faster, and completely open-source for rural hospitals.”

“Damon, that will cost hundreds of millions out of your own pocket! You’ll trigger a shareholder revolt!”

“Let them revolt,” Damon said. “Goodnight, Nora.”

He hung up, threw the phone onto the glass table, and walked out onto the balcony into the freezing December air.