Under a White Light, You Broke My Heart
The light was too white—bleached by the circle lamp in the ceiling—and it pinned Dalia in place, tremors running through her. The air stank of antiseptic, hospital-clean.
The pod sat on its pedestal, pearl-gloss and sealed tight, the Ledas crest biting into its curve like a brand. Under the circle lamp, the shell looked like an eye.
Simonee spoke behind her—soft. “What is it, Dalia?”
She couldn’t turn.
Her mouth reached for labels—legacy, leverage—but her body remembered first. Palms cold. Throat narrowing, as if the air went thick on the way in.
One hand pressed the scars at her belly while the other hovered at the latch. This was the answer—the one she’d carried without touching. If she opened the pod, there’d be no backing away. She’d have to accept it in full.
A hiss slid through the door seams behind them—the seal locking, settling. Her chest jumped at it.
She half turned as Simonee stepped closer, hand out; Dalia lifted her own—stop. No touch. Not now.
Dalia swallowed. “It wasn’t long after my mother died. That’s when he… did it.”
Her eyes snagged on the white circle above. Routine, he’d called it—to be sure.
The corridor bit at her nose, chemical-clean and too bright—station-bright—white panels, white tile, light pressing everything flat.
Her shoes clicked beside her father’s—short taps she hurried to match to his longer stride.
She squeezed his hand until her fingers disappeared inside his. He was always busy—weeks of distance—so now, at least he’s here.
She fixed on his cuff where it met his thick wrist—crisp, immaculate. Breathe. Just—breathe.
“Daddy.”
“Mmm?” Bruised shadow sat under his eyes. Under the lights, his face looked carved—hard, hollow.
She pulled a smile on anyway—because smiles were her job, her governess, Daniella, said, practice after practice until it turned real.
“Is this really necessary?” she asked, like a joke. She even laughed—too thin, the wrong sound. “I’m sure they’re just normal cramps. Mother said they’d be like this. Sometimes.”
His grip tightened—quick—then loosened, and his smile tried to form but slipped, like he’d forgotten the shape. “Yes, princess. I’m sure they are. This is just… routine. I want to be sure.”
A sign slid into view: CANCER WARD.
Dalia swallowed and looked up fast, smoothing her smile back into place. “Was Dr. Lin Mother’s doctor?”
His eyes went wide. “No.” Too loud. He looked away—mumbled, and she barely heard: “He should’ve been.”
She tried a brighter angle—something normal.
“After the appointment,” she said, “will you have time for lunch? Before you have to go back?” She rushed ahead, bundling cheerfulness tight. “A little fondue place opened up on Corp A. I saw a post about a new fondue place. People are going insane over it.”
He gave her a smile that would have made Daniella proud.
“We’ll see,” he said.
So, no. Dalia kept smiling anyway, because smiling was armor.
“I’d really like that,” she said. “Just… you and me.”
He hummed. “Just remind me.”
Around the corner, the door read Obstetrics/Gynecology. He held it open. Dalia stepped inside.
Her mother’s office had been warm—soft chairs, potted flowers, light like honey. It smelled like cookies. This was bright and grey and full of strangers, the same chemical-clean as the corridor.
“Why can’t we go to the doctor Mother used?” she asked. “That office was… nicer.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Dr. Lin is a specialist. He’s going to run a thorough check. After that, you can choose whoever you want.”
“Okay,” she said, never losing the smile.
At the desk, a woman in a crisp uniform looked up with a professional smile. “Mr. Ledas.”
Dalia’s skin prickled as her father leaned in and spoke her name—low—over a tablet and stylus, thumbprint following. The woman’s smile stayed locked while her eyes slid over Dalia as if she were furniture.
A nurse appeared at her elbow. “Dalia Ledas?” The voice went sweet—too sweet—syrup poured on steel.
“Yes,” Dalia said, and her father’s hand squeezed hers once—gentle—before letting go.
Don’t let go—but the nurse’s hand was already on her elbow, guiding her forward.
Dalia looked back. Her father stayed at the desk, tapping at the tablet.
He looked at her once and forgot to hide the worry on his face; Dalia raised a small wave—he’ll catch up, he’ll be right behind me.
The hallway narrowed. White walls. White doors. The overhead panels made everything look flatter than it was.
“Quick intake,” the nurse said. “Then a little blood, and Dr. Lin will see you.”
Dalia nodded. Her mouth felt dry.
The nurse put her in a small room—a chair, a counter, a screen with diagrams she didn’t want to look at. A cart waited by the counter, tools sealed in plastic.
Routine, her father had said—to be sure.
Snap—one glove, then the other. “How’s the pain today?”
“It’s… not bad,” Dalia lied, brightening her voice because she was supposed to. “Mother said it can feel like—like a twisting.”
The nurse nodded. “That’s normal.”
Normal. Dalia almost laughed.
“We’re going to take a little blood.”
Her stomach dropped.
The swab was cold against the inside of her elbow. Then the pinch—sharp—and her vision cinched down as the room narrowed. She fixed on the far wall and breathed the way Daniella taught her—slow, controlled, pretty. Dark red slid into the tube. Too much. The room tipped.
Don’t faint.
“You’re doing great,” the nurse said.
Tape. Cotton. Pressure. “Hold that.”
Dalia held it.
A door opened behind her. Footsteps.
She twisted in the chair.
Her father filled the doorway, and her eyes stung. “There you are,” she said, and it came out too small.
He crossed the room in two steps, his gaze skipping her to lock on the nurse, the vials, the screen. “Everything okay?” he asked—too controlled.
“So far,” the nurse said.
He finally looked at Dalia. “You alright?” Softer.
Dalia smiled because smiling was her job. “I’m fine,” she said. “See? She said it’s normal.”
“Dr. Lin is in the exam room—left down the hall,” the nurse said, sealing the vials into a pouch. She handed Dalia a plastic-wrapped bundle. “Put this on. Keep your underwear on—we just need your belly clear, dear.”
Then she stepped out. The door clicked shut.
Dalia’s father took a breath and—finally—smoothed her hair once at the temple, and Dalia’s throat tightened.
“After this,” she said quickly. “Lunch? Just us? Please.”
His hand fell away. His shoulders set again.
“We’ll see,” he repeated. “I’ll be outside.”
The second time hurt worse.
When Dalia stepped into the corridor in the gown, cold crept up her legs.
Down the hall, her father was speaking to a man with tan skin and square spectacles—Dr. Lin?—whose smile rose into his cheeks, smooth and practiced, already in place.
Her father’s face stayed tight as he ran a hand down it, like wiping something off; when he turned back, his eyes met Dalia’s—then dropped.
Dr. Lin glanced between them, said something low, and Dalia’s father locked eyes on him and shook his head once.
When Dalia reached them, Dr. Lin’s smile slipped—then snapped back into place, battle-ready.
“Dalia,” he said, “I’m Dr. Lin. We’re going to take a few pictures. Nothing to worry about. Is that okay?”
Nothing to worry about—like no was an option.
Dalia wanted to believe him. She nodded.
Dr. Lin helped her onto the table. Above her, a bright circle lamp burned into her eyes.
She turned her head. Her father was still in the hall.
“Daddy?” Her voice cracked.
He halted at the door—then stepped in.
She grabbed his hand. He squeezed back.
Then he peeled her fingers away gently.
Something was wrong. The shadow under his eyes looked deeper.
A rattle—wheels over tile. The nurse pushed a cart in. Big. With metal arms sheathed in plastic and folded tight against its sides.
Dalia’s breath skittered. She locked eyes with her father. “I—I thought… just pictures.”
“Yes,” Dr. Lin said too fast. He touched one of the cart’s arms. His Adam’s apple jumped. “We need a good look inside. This is a laparoscopic robot.” He lifted a thin wire, plucked at the tip. “A very small camera. Just two tiny incisions by your belly button. Then we’ll take pictures… Make sure everything is perfect.”
Everything tingled at once—chest fluttering, heart vibrating, breaths slipping out of sync—and she grabbed for her father’s hand again.
But he was already stepping toward the door.
“Where—where are you going?”
Without turning. “I can’t be here for this, princess.”
“Daddy—don’t go.” It cracked out of her.
Finally, he turned, hand on his chin. “I’m sorry.”
The door closed.
She shook her head hard. “No—I don’t want this anymore. I’m fine. It’s just cramps—normal cramps. I don’t want to be cut open. I didn’t know.”
Something stung her shoulder, and she jerked as Dr. Lin put away a syringe. This wasn’t right—why did he leave, why wasn’t anyone listening?
“Relax, Dalia,” Dr. Lin said. “We need you still. We’re going to put you under for a little bit. We’ll show you the pictures when we’re through.”
Hands closed around her face. A mask sealed over her nose and mouth. She tried not to breathe, but her body betrayed her—the hiss flooding her ears, numbness creeping up, copper on her tongue.
“Count back with me, sweetie,” the nurse whispered. “Ten… nine… eight… seven—”
The bright circle over the pod glared through the blur in her eyes.
“When I woke up,” she said, voice thin, “I felt… hollow.”
She rubbed the scars. “Clean seams. But they burned—sometimes they still do.”
Dalia’s hand lifted—Simonee’s hands cradling it, squeezing. Dalia wiped her eyes with the other.
She looked down at the crest stamped into the pod—into her. “They told me I was fine—no cancer. They showed me the pictures, but my body screamed that something was wrong.”
She lifted her gaze to her cousin by the vault door. “And then someone finally showed me the truth—” Her throat snagged. “—and that day I found you, Simonee.”
Simonee nodded at the pod. “Dalia, what’s inside?”
Dalia pulled her hand away, hit the latch release, and stepped back. The pod hissed—cracked open—fog spilling and thinning.
Inside, a glass cylinder stood coated in frost, and within it floated two bulbous lumps of tissue.
Dalia turned to Simonee. “Ovaries.” Her voice steadied on the word. “My ovaries.”
She lifted her hand and touched the crest on the pod’s shell. “Branded and put high on a shelf—like my body wasn’t good enough.”
She looked back at Simonee. “That’s the Ledas legacy.”