Chapter 1

Oliver Farley had a scoring system for family matters.

Anything below a seven, and he wouldn't handle it himself. Only urgency rated seven or higher earned his personal attention.

But that standard only ever applied to me and our daughter.

When his secretary, Hilary Hughes, had a stomachache, he walked away from a multi-million-dollar contract to drive her to the hospital himself.

When our daughter's fever hit a hundred and six, he gave it a four.

"Kids run fevers all the time. Not worth a special trip."

When she was moved into the ICU, he still only gave it a six.

"One point short. Doesn't meet my threshold."

I asked, "How many points before you'll come?"

On the other end of the line, his voice was flat.

"Seven is the life-or-death line. She isn't there yet."

Later, the doctors issued a critical condition notice.

I took a photo and sent it to him. "How many points is this worth?"

Two hours passed before he replied.

"Seven. I'll come over after tomorrow's board meeting."

But half an hour later, a new post from Hilary showed up in my feed.

In the photo, Oliver was crouched in a downpour, searching for her lost cat.

The caption read: "I only mentioned I was scared, and he rushed over in the middle of the night to be with me. Mr. Farley says my problems are always a ten."

I stared at that line for a long time, and then I laughed.

So the seven-point life-or-death line had never been about the severity of the situation.

It was only ever the measure of whether he loved the person or not.

I put my phone away, signed my name on our daughter's critical condition notice, and calmly sent my lawyer a message:

"Get the divorce papers ready."

...

The reply came back fast.

"I'll have the agreement drafted tonight. Custody, the current residence, and ongoing medical costs, do you want all of that handled at the same time?"

I looked at the red light over the ICU door and typed one line.

"Custody goes to me. Everything else is negotiable."

The doctor came out and handed me a medication consent form.

"Paula Farley has gone into a febrile seizure, and the lung infection is still worsening. We're adjusting the treatment plan. We need your signature."

I had just taken the pen when I heard footsteps behind me.

Oliver had arrived.

His shirt was soaked through, mud on his cuffs, several fresh scratches across the back of his hand.

A nurse trailed behind him with iodine and gauze, urging him to let her clean the wounds first.

He glanced at the ICU door, his voice even.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Febrile seizure. The infection's getting worse."

Oliver lifted his wrist and checked the time.

"If she's still being treated, then it isn't the worst-case scenario yet. Sending me seven messages in a row only clouds my judgment."

The doctor frowned. "Mr. Farley, a critical condition notice isn't the family throwing a tantrum. She was already in respiratory failure when she was brought in. A little later, and I couldn't have predicted the outcome."

"I respect the professional assessment."

Oliver took the consent form and ran his eyes over the risk clauses.

"But she went from a hundred-and-six fever to critical in a matter of hours. Whether that kind of deterioration is connected to a treatment error also needs to be investigated."

I looked at the wounds on the back of his hand.

"Did you find the cat?"

His expression paused for a beat.

"I did."

"So Hilary mentions in passing that she's scared, and that's worth you standing in the rain for half an hour. Paula ends up in the ICU, and that's only worth you questioning the doctor?"

Oliver set the form back down in front of me.

"You can't lump the two together. Hilary has a panic disorder. When it flares up, she's prone to hurting herself. Paula is in a hospital, with doctors responsible for her."

"She's only six."

"Precisely because she's our daughter, she can't be allowed to grow up thinking she can cry and throw fits over everything."

An alarm suddenly went off inside the ICU.

A nurse ran in, and in the instant the door swung open, I saw Paula's thin little arm strapped to the side of the bed, her whole face buried under an oxygen mask.

My legs gave out, and I caught the wall to stay upright.

Oliver reached out and steadied my arm.

"Don't scare yourself."

I shook him off.

"You should go."

"You kept pushing me to come, and now you want me to leave?"

"The lawyer will contact you."

His eyes went dark.

"What lawyer?"

Before I could answer, a nurse leaned out of the ICU.

"She's awake. She's not very lucid, and she keeps calling for her father."

Oliver pushed through the door.

Paula heard the footsteps and forced her eyes open.

"Daddy."

He bent down and touched her forehead.

"I'm here. Where does it hurt?"

The fever had left her voice hoarse.

"Mommy said you'd only come if it was a seven."

Oliver's hand went still.

"Why is Mommy telling you things like that?"

"So am I a seven now?"

He didn't answer.

Paula waited a few seconds, then carefully stretched out her hand, reaching for his cuff.

Just as her fingertips were about to touch it, Oliver's phone rang.

On the other end, Hilary was crying so hard she could barely breathe.

"Oliver, Buttons keeps throwing up ever since we got her back. The vet says she might have swallowed something. I can't do the exam alone."

Oliver straightened up.

"Send me the address. I'm on my way."

Paula's hand dropped back onto the sheet.

I stepped in front of the bed.

"She just woke up."

"The vet's not far from here. I'll come back once I've dealt with it."

"Oliver. She's calling for you."

He tucked the blanket up around Paula, his tone as calm as ever.

"She's already seen me."

At the door, he turned back to look at me.

"Whatever you want to say, save it until Paula's fever breaks. Don't take your resentment toward me out in front of the child."

After the door closed, Paula stared at the empty spot where he'd stood and asked me in a small voice:

"Mommy, does the kitten hurt more than I do?"