Crowdfunding And Porsche

1 My brother went into cardiac arrest. I called Greyson twenty-seven times before he finally answered. "One hundred thirty-six thousand dollars? Harrington funds are for commercial growth, not your family's bottomless pit. Start a crowdfunding campaign. I'll send the link. You're an adult, Norah. Stop relying on others to clean up your mess." Numb with cold outside the ER, I returned to our estate at 2 A.M. for my brother's records. Through the study doors, I heard Greyson speaking tenderly to his assistant. "Order a four-hundred-thousand-dollar pink Porsche Panamera for Jasmine. Put it on the corporate account. She scraped her knee today. Scars don't suit a young girl. Have it drive her daily." Jasmine was an intern of seventeen days. Spotting me in the hallway, Greyson nodded approvingly. "Adults solve their own problems. I donated ten dollars to your crowdfunding page, by the way. I had to show some support for my wife." I gave a hollow reply and walked into the study. Clarity struck like a blow. He had the resources. I simply wasn't worth the expense. I pulled the divorce papers from the drawer and signed my name, stroke by stroke. From this moment on, we were strangers. … When Greyson's ten-dollar donation cleared, my brother Lucas saw his heart rate drop below twenty for the third time. The nurse rushed toward me, her voice panicked. "Mrs. Harrington! He needs to be moved to the hybrid operating room immediately. We need the initial deposit of one hundred thirty-six thousand dollars cleared right now." I stared at my phone screen. Donor: Greyson Harrington. Amount: $10. Note: Adults must learn to carry their own weight. I dialed his cell again. When he finally answered, his irritation spilled through the speaker. "Norah, how long are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?" "Lucas went from ventricular tachycardia to fibrillation," I rasped, my throat raw. "The doctor said any further delay will cause brain hypoxia. Please, loan me the money. I will sign a formal promissory note." He let out a dry, dismissive laugh. "Do you have any idea how much your brother has cost over the years? Harrington capital drives enterprise, Norah. It is not an endless treasury to keep your family on life support." Inside the trauma bay, someone shouted, "Prepare the defibrillator!" My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor. "He is only twenty-two years old. I am begging you." "Begging will not change reality. People need to face consequences. You cannot dump your financial risks onto others every time life gets hard." The line went dead. A second later, a text arrived with a link to a public assistance form. Then came the notification for his ten-dollar contribution. 2 At two-thirty in the morning, I returned to the estate to retrieve Lucas's medical history files. The main hallway was dark. Greyson stood near his study doorway, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "Forget the waiting list at that Swiss rehabilitation clinic. Pay extra for the VIP expedited track. Jasmine scraped her ankle today. A girl should not have to live with scars. Book her for the full scar-restoration package while she is there." He hung up, noticed me standing by the stairs, and frowned. "Why are you back?" "To get his old medical records." He extended a hand toward the folder in my grip. "How is he doing at the hospital?" "Still in critical care." He hesitated for a second. "I already made a donation." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Ten dollars?" His face darkened. "The amount is irrelevant. What matters is the gesture." So ten dollars was his idea of a meaningful gesture. "And what about Jasmine?" I asked softly. "She scrapes her ankle, and you buy her a VIP spot at a private clinic in Switzerland?" Greyson's eyes turned sharp and cold. "Jasmine is different. Her older sister saved my life. Her family sacrificed for me." "So Lucas's life has to yield to hers?" "Stop dragging your brother into every conversation!" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Nadia died in that warehouse fire years ago! Can your family stop using sickness and guilt to bleed me dry?" The words slammed into my chest like a blunt blade. Perhaps realizing he had crossed a line, he retrieved a first-aid kit from the cabinet and gently applied a bandage to my cracked fingernail. "Pain is manageable, Norah. Do not turn your pain into an excuse to make demands." Years ago, when Harrington Corporation faced a massive liquidity collapse, Greyson was hospitalized with severe gastric bleeding. I stayed by his bedside for three days and three nights without sleep. Every hour, my phone vibrated with calls from aggressive creditors. I spent those nights holding a wet cloth to his forehead with one hand and begging investors for loans with the other. I secured every penny through sheer desperation. I weathered those dark nights so he would not have to. When he finally woke up, he gripped my hand and whispered, "Norah, I owe you my entire life." Over time, he gave his gratitude to the Ross family, his gentle patience to Jasmine, and reserved only cold, condescending lectures for me. I pulled my hand back, walked into the bedroom, and retrieved the divorce decree. I had revised those documents many times before. The first time was when he abandoned our anniversary dinner to attend Jasmine's birthday party. The second time was when he casually referred to Lucas as a long-term financial liability. Tonight, the final thread snapped. I signed my name at the bottom. Norah Prescott. My hand did not tremble as the ink dried on the paper. The next morning, I did not go to the registrar office. I went straight to the law firm beneath the Harrington corporate tower. Mr. Bennett, my attorney, reviewed the file line by line. "Are you certain you want to proceed with a litigated divorce?" I nodded without hesitation. "Yes. We can attempt mediation, but do not let him stall." At ten-forty, a text from Greyson popped up on my screen. [Jasmine is getting her ankle evaluated today and she is feeling anxious. Stop acting out. We will talk at home tonight.] I stared at the message for a moment before typing back. [If you want to talk, contact my attorney.] He called immediately. I declined the call, switched my phone to silent, and headed straight back to the ICU. 3 Lucas was awake, an oxygen mask fitted tightly over his pale face. When his eyes caught mine, a dim spark lit up his expression. "Sis," he rasped softly. I leaned over his bed, gently brushing his hair back. "Does it hurt?" He shook his head, then looked past my shoulder. "Did Greyson come with you?" I tucked the heavy blanket around his shoulders. "He is busy with work." The faint light in his eyes dimmed, but he quickly forced a soft smile. "He runs a massive company. It makes sense that he is busy." My throat tightened so much it hurt to breathe. Lucas had always admired Greyson. He used to say Greyson was like a lighthouse, that as long as you could see a faint beam of light in the dark, you could endure anything. Only now did I realize that light was never meant for us. It was a spotlight, shining brightly on the Ross family, on his corporate empire, on every respectable person in his inner circle. It never once touched the dark corner where we stood. That afternoon, the hospital accounting desk issued an urgent payment notice. I took my mother's heirloom jade bangle, my father's vintage pocket watch, and the diamond engagement ring Greyson had bought me, laying them out on the counter of a downtown pawn shop. The shopkeeper evaluated the items quietly. "In a hurry?" "It is to save a life," I said. He offered a price far below market value. I did not bother to negotiate. When the clerk tried to run my card for the remaining balance, the machine beeped red. A transaction failure notice flashed on my phone screen. My supplementary card had been restricted. Category blocks: Medical Institutions, Pawn Services, High-Value Wire Transfers. Minutes later, Greyson's executive assistant called my line. "Mrs. Harrington, Mr. Harrington noted that you are currently under emotional distress and might make impulsive financial decisions. He placed a temporary risk management hold on your cards. He mentioned that you need to practice better long-term asset allocation." I gripped the receiver tightly, my knuckles turning white. "Tell him I will be handing a record of this action directly to my divorce attorney." Half an hour later, my online medical campaign was flagged. System Alert: [Your campaign has been suspended due to reports of exaggerated medical claims and unauthorized celebrity brand association.] The platform support agent confirmed that an official corporate account had filed a verified complaint. The claim stated that I was weaponizing my status as the spouse of the Harrington Corporation CEO to gain public sympathy, severely damaging corporate reputation. I stared at the ten-dollar donation sitting at the bottom of the frozen page, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. Greyson would not offer help. And he would ensure no one else could, either. That evening, he walked into the hospital ward holding a stack of high-interest medical financing forms. "The credit limit on this medical loan is substantial," he said, setting the papers on the bedside table. "Sign it, and the funds will be released today. Also, delete that fundraising link immediately." I looked at him coldly. "Why?" "You are my wife. Publicly begging for money ruins the reputation of Harrington Corporation." "My brother is dying, and your primary concern is brand image?" His brow furrowed into a deep crease. "My concern is preventing you from degrading yourself into a beggar! Pawn shops, high-yield loans, public charity, why do you resort to these dramatic scenes instead of managing things properly? Why must you always demand resources from me?" "Because you are my husband," I said flatly. He scoffed. "A husband is not an automated teller machine." "And a wife is not a high-risk asset for you to manage and restrict." His expression turned instantly hostile. "Norah, you are becoming unbearable." "I used to believe that if I endured everything quietly, you would feel a little empathy," I replied in a low voice. "Then I realized that my silence only made it easier for you to walk all over me." I picked up the loan documents and tore them down the middle, page by page. "I will find my own way." Greyson glared at the torn paper on the floor. "Then you had better remember this moment. Do not call me in the middle of the night crying for help." 4 After he slammed the door shut, Lucas opened his eyes. He looked at the torn paper scattered near the trash bin and spoke in a frail whisper. "Sis." "Yeah?" "Six years ago... the person who pulled Greyson out of that burning warehouse was not Nadia Ross." My hand froze over the water glass. "What did you just say?" "It was me," Lucas whispered, his breath raspy. "I was sixteen. I went into the fire and dragged him out." I stood frozen beside his bed. After that catastrophic fire six years ago, everyone claimed Nadia Ross had saved Greyson's life. Nadia died from her injuries, and Greyson transformed his guilt into an eternal obligation toward the Ross family. Meanwhile, Lucas had returned home that night coughing up blood, suffering from severe smoke inhalation and permanent myocardial damage. He told me he had simply inhaled smoke near the perimeter. He begged me not to tell my new husband. I grabbed his trembling hand. "Why didn't you tell me?" A faint, tired smile touched his lips. "You had just married into his family, Sis. If I came forward then, it would have looked like we were demanding a reward. Nadia was dead, and dead people cannot defend themselves." My throat burned with unspeakable pain. "So you stayed quiet for six years?" "I never planned to hide it forever," he murmured, staring up at the harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling. "I guess it is just too late now." I placed my hand gently over his mouth. "Stop talking nonsense." He crinkled his eyes softly. "Sis... I would really love a glass of warm water." I hurried out to the nurse's station to fill the pitcher. As I rounded the corner of the corridor, a delicate voice called out to me. "Norah." Jasmine Ross stood near the VIP elevator, a small square bandage neatly taped over her right ankle. She was holding a leather folder from the private rehabilitation center. Looking at that tiny piece of gauze, a surge of absurd bitterness hit me. Lucas was lying in a standard ward, denied basic medical hardware over a missing deposit, while she occupied a VIP recovery spot for a minor scrape. I stopped in my tracks. "Six years ago, at the logistics warehouse... did your sister actually step foot inside those flames?" Jasmine's face paled for a fraction of a second before her lips trembled into a wounded pouts. "Norah... how could you speak about my deceased sister like that?" Her voice was not loud, but it carried perfectly across the quiet hallway. Right on cue, her phone rang. Jasmine picked up, her voice instantly dropping into a delicate, tearful whine. "Greyson... I am fine. Norah was just asking me a few questions about my sister." A few seconds later, she held the phone out toward me. Greyson's voice hit my ear like a frozen blade. "Norah, are you harassing Jasmine now?" "I am asking about the fire," I said, keeping my voice steady. "What actually happened that night." "I warned you never to bring up Nadia!" he growled. "She sacrificed her life! Must you drag a dead woman into your petty, calculating schemes?" Calculations. Always calculations. I let out a soft, mirthless breath. "Greyson, if you wake up one day and realize you knelt at the wrong grave, repaid the wrong debt, and protected the wrong person... what will you do?" He sneered through the speaker. "That day will never come. I know who pulled me out of those flames." The line snapped shut. Jasmine lowered her phone, wiping away an imaginary tear. The timid expression on her face vanished, replaced by a cold, triumphant smile. "Norah, you need to learn your place. Some debts belong to people who know how to keep them." I met her gaze evenly. "Stolen debts always burn the hands that hold them." 5 That evening, I returned to the estate to retrieve my official identification documents. Jasmine was lounging on the velvet sofa, her leg propped up on a plush ottoman. Greyson was crouching beside her, carefully unwrapping her bandage. When I stepped through the foyer, Jasmine flinched and drew her foot back. "Norah... please do not misunderstand. Greyson was just saying the hospital dressing was too rough." Greyson did not bother to offer an explanation. I walked past them without a word, entered the master bedroom, and gathered my passport, marriage certificate, and the original copies of the property collateral agreements I had signed years ago to rescue his firm. Greyson followed me inside, closing the door firmly behind him. "Are you truly taking this to court?" "Yes." He gripped my wrist tightly. "Lucas is still in the ICU. If you blow everything up right now, who is going to back you financially?" I looked up into his eyes. "I do not need your backing. I just need you to stop standing on my neck." From the living room, Jasmine's soft voice drifted through the door. "Greyson... my ankle is throbbing again." Greyson's hand unclasped from my wrist almost instantly. In that final second, the last lingering echo of hope inside me died completely. I returned to the hospital that night. On Lucas's pillow lay a small scrap of paper with his shaky, uneven handwriting. [Sis, if I do not make it through this, please stop begging him.] [I just want you to be okay.] I crumpled the paper tightly in my palm and sat by his side until dawn. Two days later, Lucas suffered a third critical collapse. The attending physician informed me that he required immediate placement on a temporary circulatory assist unit. There was only one available console left in the hospital inventory. Another patient was next in line, waiting for payment confirmation. If we could not clear the deposit within forty minutes, the unit would be reallocated. Cost: One hundred thirty-six thousand dollars. My bank accounts remained frozen. The funds from the pawn shop were entirely depleted. The crowdfunding page was still under audit. I sat in the stairwell, scrolling down my contact list until my finger stopped at Greyson's name. I knew I should not call. But through the heavy doors behind me, my brother was losing his fight against time. The first call went unanswered. The second was rejected. On the third attempt, the call connected. The background was loud with activity, the sharp clinking of crystal glasses, loud applause, and Jasmine's delighted voice ringing out. "Greyson, am I truly eligible for this corporate honor?" Greyson's warm laugh carried through the line. "Your sister would be proud of you." I held the phone tightly to my ear. "Greyson." The noise on his end quieted slightly. "What now?" "Lucas needs a circulatory assist device right now. I am short one hundred thirty-six thousand dollars. I will sign a formal loan agreement." He did not ask about my brother's condition. Instead, his tone turned icy. "Did you call because you know I am attending the Ross family memorial gala tonight?" I froze. His voice boiled over with suppressed anger. "Today is the anniversary of Nadia's passing. Jasmine is representing her family publicly for the first time. Are you calling right now just to make a scene and humiliate me in front of everyone?" Listening to the blaring alarms down the hall, I found myself completely speechless. My brother was fading away on an operating table, and his only concern was that my desperation was embarrassing him at a party. "If it were Jasmine lying in that bed waiting for equipment right now," I asked softly, "would you hesitate?" Silence hung heavy on the line. The silence was an answer in itself. A moment later, he spoke coldly. "Jasmine would never use an illness to manipulate me." I closed my eyes. "Greyson, you will regret this." He let out a harsh laugh. "The only thing I regret is that on the night I agreed to marry you, I missed Nadia's final phone call. Stop testing my patience, Norah." He hung up. A nurse burst through the double doors at the end of the hall. "Mrs. Harrington! The doctor needs you to sign the high-risk consent form immediately!" The doctor handed me the clipboard, his face grim. "If we cannot secure the assist device, the surgical risk spikes dramatically. You need to be prepared." My hand trembled as I signed my name. My phone chimed again. It was Greyson. His voice had softened slightly, as if he were finally condescending to offer a crumb of patience. "I had my assistant contact a private credit lender. The interest rates are higher, but the approval process is fast. Go sign the paperwork." I looked at the red warning lights outside the operating room. "The hospital needs the funds right now, not tomorrow." He was quiet for a second before sighing. "Then there is nothing more to be done. Everyone has their own fate to accept." The moment those words left his mouth, the double doors burst open once more. "Family! The patient has gone from fibrillation to complete asystole!" My phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum floor with a sharp clatter. The speaker was still on. Greyson's voice floated out into the hallway. "Norah? Stop pretending you cannot hear me." Inside the trauma bay, voices screamed over the alarms. "Start chest compressions!" "Epinephrine, one milligram!" "Push it now!" Twenty minutes later, the doors opened slowly. The lead surgeon pulled down his surgical mask, his face pale. "Mrs. Harrington... we did everything we could." When they rolled Lucas out, his face was covered by a white sheet. I tried to step forward. My feet felt as though they were nailed to the floor.