My Boyfriend Called My Mother’S ICU A Bottomless Pit And Her Startup A Gift Chapter 01

My Boyfriend Called My Mother’S ICU A Bottomless Pit And Her Startup A Gift Chapter 01

The day my mother was moved into the ICU, Dashiell Veyne refused to lend me a single dollar.

He said, “My money is for venture capital, not for throwing into a bottomless pit.”

Then he sent me a list of online lenders.

“The rates aren’t terrible,” he added. “Figure something out.”

I crouched in the hospital corridor with the billing statement crushed in my hand, too numb to even cry. Then I heard his voice by the window.

“The $600,000 in startup funding has already been wired to your account.”

“Even if you lose it all, I’ll cover it. Consider it practice.”

He was talking to Elodie Harker, a fresh graduate on the management track at his company.

My fingers tightened around the hospital bill until the paper wrinkled beneath my nails. When Dashiell turned around and saw me standing there quietly—no tears, no scene, no begging left in me—he actually looked satisfied.

“That’s better,” he said. “You can’t keep running to other people every time life gets hard.”

“You need to learn independence. That’s what being responsible for yourself means.”

I gave a calm hum.

He didn’t look at me again before he walked away.

That was when I finally understood something. When a person truly gives up, they don’t scream. They don’t make a scene. Sometimes, they don’t even have the strength to ask why anymore.

I reached into my bag and took out the divorce paper I had prepared long ago.

Then I signed my name, slowly and deliberately.

From that moment on, there was no more us.

Only him.

And only me.

***

By the time Dashiell came home, it was almost one in the morning.

I was sitting in the living room with the hospital billing statement, the ICU consent forms, and the signed divorce agreement laid out on the coffee table in front of me.

He stepped inside, saw me, and only frowned.

“Why are you still awake?”

I looked up at him.

“My mother is still in the ICU.”

He hung up his coat, walked to the bar, and poured himself a glass of water.

“I know.”

His tone was so flat he might as well have been commenting on the weather.

I watched the glass in his hand and suddenly remembered myself that afternoon in the hospital corridor, begging him for money.

I had said, “Dashiell, $50,000. Just enough to keep her treatment going.”

But he only said, “Sable, some things can’t be bought more time.”

Then he turned around and wired Elodie $600,000.

I thought I had already gone numb, but seeing him come home as if nothing had happened still made something slam hard against my chest.

Dashiell finished his water. Only then did his gaze fall to the coffee table.

“What are these?”

“Divorce papers.”

His hand stilled.

A few seconds later, he let out a short laugh, as if he had just heard something absurd.

“Sable, what are you doing now?”

I pushed the agreement toward him.

“I already signed.”

He didn’t take it. He only lowered his eyes to the words on the page, his expression cooling by degrees.

“Because I wouldn’t give you money?”

“No.”

My voice was very soft.

“Because today I realized you’re not broke. You’re not incapable of helping people.”

“You just won’t help me.”

Dashiell’s face darkened.

“Elodie’s project is a company investment. It has nothing to do with personal feelings.”

“I saw the agreement.”

His eyes sharpened.

I held his gaze and said, “A personal transfer from your account. A personal guarantee from you. Any losses covered by you.”

A faint smile touched my mouth.

“That’s what you call a company investment?”

A flash of impatience crossed his eyes.

“You went through my things?”

I almost laughed.

So that was his first reaction. Not to explain. Not to feel guilty. But to blame me for seeing it.

Dashiell set the glass down hard on the table.

“You’re emotional right now, Sable. I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I understand that your mother is sick, but you don’t get to take your stress out on me.”

I stared at him as if he had become a stranger right in front of me.

“She’s the woman you called Mom for six years.”

Dashiell looked away.

“I never said I wouldn’t help.”

“I just think it’s irresponsible to keep pouring money into something with no clear outcome.”

The words landed between us, ugly and cold.

Maybe he realized it too, because after a moment, he added, “I can help you find specialists. I can ask around for resources.”

“But the money is something you need to handle yourself.”

My stomach turned.

I stood up, picked up the divorce agreement, and slid it back into the folder.

“Tomorrow at ten. County courthouse. We file the joint petition.”

Dashiell stared at me for a long time.

“Sable, if you leave me, how exactly are you going to keep paying for your mother’s treatment?”

The moment those words left his mouth, my fingers clenched around the folder.

He knew exactly what terrified me most.

He knew exactly what I needed most.

And that was why he used it to force me to bow my head.

I just stared at him.

“I’ll figure it out myself.”

Something in my answer seemed to sting him. His face went even colder.

“Then you’d better not come crawling back to me.”

I didn’t answer.

I turned and went into the bedroom.

Before I closed the door, I heard him answer a call in the living room. His voice dropped, softer than anything he had used with me all night.

“Elodie, I went through your deck.”

“It’s solid. Don’t overthink it. I’ll be there for your pitch tomorrow.”

I shut the door, leaned back against it, and slowly slid to the floor.

A dull ache spread through my lower abdomen.

I had been so busy with my mother these past few days that I had missed my follow-up appointment.

There was still a reminder from Ridgeford General sitting unread on my phone.

Ridgeford General: [Ms. Merrick, our records show you are seven weeks pregnant. Please schedule your prenatal follow-up as soon as possible.]

I stared at that line for a long time.

Then I turned off the screen.