Chapter 4 - THE THING ONLY I COULD GIVE
Richard opened his eyes thirteen hours after surgery.
He squeezed both hands.
Moved both feet.
Followed commands.
His kidneys were struggling, but functioning.
There had been no obvious major stroke.
When Marcus told me, I sat on the floor beside my sofa and cried.
Not loudly.
Not beautifully.
I covered my face with both hands and let relief tear through everything else I had been holding together.
Richard was alive.
For that moment, nothing else mattered.
Preston called six minutes later.
I almost ignored him.
Then I answered.
“He woke up.”
“I know.”
His voice broke.
“Thank you.”
“Thank Lewis.”
“I did.”
“And Marcus.”
“I did.”
“And the nurses, perfusionists, anesthesiologists, blood bank, and every person who kept him alive today.”
“I will.”
There was a pause.
“But thank you.”
I said nothing.
“He would not have had the same chance without you.”
“Maybe.”
“You know that’s true.”
“I know I contributed.”
“Why can’t you just accept—”
“Because I know how this works.”
My voice hardened.
“One famous name gets attached to a rescue and everyone else disappears.”
“That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“I spent my career learning not to steal credit from teams.”
“Fine.”
He exhaled.
Chapter 5“Then thank all of them.”
“I already did.”
Silence stretched between us.
I could hear hospital sounds behind him.
A monitor.
Distant voices.
The soft pneumatic hiss of a door.
“Cecily came to see me,” I said.
The background went silent.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I told her not to.”
“She said that.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t blame her for the one honest conversation either of you has given me.”
“What did she say?”
“Enough.”
“Althia.”
“She told me January.”
He stopped breathing for half a second.
“She told me you said I loved my work more than I loved you.”
“That’s not exactly—”
“She told me you said I was never there.”
“I was angry.”
“For eight months?”
“I was trying to make sense of what I was doing.”
“So you made me responsible.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I stood and walked toward the table.
My engagement ring still lay beside his card.
Can’t wait to marry you.
I picked up the card.
“When you called me Friday night, where were you?”
“What?”
“After the wedding.”
“Althia, why does that matter?”
“Because I’m asking.”
He hesitated.
“My apartment.”
“Was Cecily there?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
The answer almost made me nauseous.
I remembered Friday night.
I had been barefoot on my hotel bed.
Preston had told me he missed me.
He had asked what flowers I wanted at our wedding.
Cecily had been in the same apartment.
His wife.
“Did she know you were calling me?”
“Yes.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“And neither of you stopped.”
“It was complicated.”
“No.”
I looked at the handwritten card.
“This is the problem with you, Preston.”
“What?”
“You use complicated when the correct word is cruel.”
He went silent.
I tore the card in half.
The sound was tiny.
Still, he heard it.
“What was that?”
“Nothing you need anymore.”
“Althia, please.”
“Your father survived surgery.”
“So that’s it?”
“That was the medical emergency.”
“I mean us.”
I almost admired the entitlement required to ask.
“There is no us.”
“You can’t make that decision after one conversation.”
“You made it at town hall.”
“People make mistakes.”
“A mistake is forgetting a reservation.”
I tore the card again.
“Marriage is a contract.”
“You think I don’t know I screwed up?”
“I think you’re sorry you lost access to me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“You think I called you twenty times because of access?”
“Yes.”
“My father was dying.”
“And I helped him.”
“You could have refused.”
“I would never punish a patient for his son’s behavior.”
“Then you still care about my family.”
“Of course I care.”
My voice broke slightly.
“I spent seven years caring about all of you.”
That silenced him.
I looked down at the pieces of paper in my hand.
“You seem to think ending our relationship requires me to suddenly become indifferent.”
I swallowed.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then come home.”
The request was softer this time.
Not an order.
That almost made it more dangerous.
“Dad will want to see you.”
“I’ll come when it is medically appropriate.”
“When?”
“When I decide.”
“Althia.”
“Do you understand what that phrase means?”
He sighed.
“This isn’t a power struggle.”
“It never should have been.”
I dropped the torn card into the trash.
“Your father is alive tonight.”
“Yes.”
“That is enough.”
I ended the call.
The next morning, I booked a commercial flight to New York.
Not Preston’s jet.
Not Sterling Aviation.
Not a car he sent.
My ticket.
My passport.
My decision.
I arrived at Sterling Memorial the following evening carrying one small bag and wearing no engagement ring.
The hospital entrance was surrounded by glass and steel, the Sterling family name carved above the doors in letters large enough to remind everyone who had paid for the building.
I had walked through those doors hundreds of times.
Never like this.
Kendall met me in the lobby.
She looked at my bare hand first.
Then my face.
“You slept?”
“On the plane.”
“That is not sleep.”
“It counts.”
“No, that is unconsciousness at altitude.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then Kendall hugged me.
I held on longer than usual.
“I heard Richard is improving,” she said.
“He is.”
“Creatinine?”
“Still ugly.”
“Brain?”
“Looks good.”
“And you?”
“Unknown prognosis.”
Kendall pulled back.
“That sounds like a surgeon avoiding the question.”
“It is.”
We walked toward the elevators.
When the doors opened on the cardiac ICU floor, I saw Preston immediately.
He was standing beside the nurses’ station wearing the same dark suit trousers from some earlier hour and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He looked exhausted.
Unshaven.
Smaller somehow.
Then I noticed his left hand.
Wedding ring.
Of course.
He saw me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
His eyes dropped to my bare hand.
The effect was immediate.
Pain crossed his face.
Good, some uncharitable part of me thought.
Then I hated myself for being pleased.
“Althia.”
I turned to Kendall.
“Give me ten minutes.”
She studied Preston.
“Five.”
“Kendall.”
“Fine.”
She walked away.
Preston stepped closer.
“You came.”
“For Richard.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His jaw tightened.
“I deserve that.”
I did not respond.
For years, Preston had always reached for me when we were standing close.
A hand at my back.
Fingers around my wrist.
A kiss against my temple.
Now he kept both hands at his sides.
I appreciated that more than I wanted to.
“How is he?” he asked.
“You already have his updates.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“Stable.”
“That means?”
“That means he survived a catastrophic operation and the next several days remain important.”
“Can I breathe?”
“You can do whatever you want.”
A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth.
“Still angry.”
I stared at him.
“Was that supposed to be charming?”
“No.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Sorry.”
I looked toward Richard’s room.
“Is he awake?”
“On and off.”
“Has Lewis seen him?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Good.”
I started toward the room.
Preston stepped into my path.
Not aggressively.
Just enough.
“Can we talk first?”
“No.”
“Five minutes.”
“No.”
“Althia.”
“Move.”
He did.
That, at least, he understood.
I entered Richard’s room.
Machines surrounded him.
Lines disappeared beneath blankets and dressings.
His skin looked pale.
His chest rose carefully.
But his eyes opened when I approached.
For several seconds, he seemed confused.
Then recognition settled in.
“Paris,” he whispered.
I smiled despite myself.
“You remembered.”
“Not dead yet.”
“Try not to sound disappointed.”
He gave a weak huff that might have been a laugh.
I sat beside him.
“How do you feel?”
“Like somebody hit me with a truck.”
“Technically, Lewis used a saw.”
Richard frowned.
“Your bedside manner is terrible.”
“I’ve heard.”
He looked at my face.
Then my hand.
His eyes stayed there.
Richard Sterling had built three companies from almost nothing.
He missed very little.
“Where’s your ring?”
There was no graceful answer.
So I gave him the true one.
“I’m not engaged anymore.”
He stared at me.
For one second, I watched him search my expression.
Then understanding began to arrive.
Slowly.
Horribly.
“What did he do?”
“Richard.”
“What did Preston do?”
“You just had major surgery.”
“Althia.”
The monitor beside him began climbing.
I stood.
“That is exactly why we are not discussing this.”
His eyes narrowed.
Even half-drugged, Richard could be formidable.
“Did he hurt you?”
I thought about the wedding photograph.
“Yes.”
Richard closed his eyes.
A long breath left him.
When he opened them again, grief had replaced anger.
“I’m sorry.”
Those two words nearly undid me.
Not because Richard owed me an apology.
Because the people who did owe me one had spent days defending themselves before giving it.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“He’s my son.”
“And you are not responsible for every choice he makes.”
His mouth tightened.
“Wish I believed that.”
“You should.”
He studied me.
“Is that why you didn’t come immediately?”
I could have lied.
I didn’t.
“No.”
“No?”
“You needed surgery before I could get here.”
He blinked.
“I told them not to wait.”
“Preston said—”
I went still.
“What did Preston say?”
Richard looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
“That you were refusing to come.”
My chest became cold.
I should not have been surprised.
Still, betrayal had a remarkable ability to find fresh skin.
“What exactly did he say?”
“Not much.”
Richard’s voice was weak.
“He was angry.”
I waited.
“Said personal problems were affecting your judgment.”
For several seconds, I heard nothing except the monitor.
Then I stood.
Richard caught my wrist weakly.
“Althia.”
“I’m fine.”
“That face says otherwise.”
I forced myself to look at him.
“I advised the team from Paris for seven hours.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“I reviewed your imaging before you went into surgery.”
He said nothing.
“I helped plan the operation with Lewis.”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“And Preston knew?”
“Yes.”
The monitor accelerated again.
I immediately regretted answering.
“Don’t.”
Chapter 6Richard’s voice sharpened despite his weakness.
“Don’t defend him from me.”
“I’m protecting your blood pressure.”
That almost earned another laugh.
Almost.
Then Richard looked at my bare hand again.
“He married her, didn’t he?”
I froze.
He watched my face.
And I understood.
He knew there had been something.
Not the marriage.
But something.
“You suspected?”
Richard looked suddenly exhausted.
“I saw them together two months ago.”
My stomach dropped.
Not another twist.
Not another secret conspiracy.
Just one more clue that had existed while I refused to see the shape it formed.
“Where?”
“At my house.”
“What were they doing?”
“Talking.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“But when I walked in, they stopped.”
I looked away.
“I asked Preston later.”
“What did he say?”
“That Cecily was helping plan something for you.”
Of course.
The perfect explanation.
Because Cecily was my best friend.
Because weddings required secrets.
Because trust made betrayal incredibly efficient.
“I believed him,” Richard said.
“So did I.”
His fingers tightened slightly around mine.
“I’m sorry.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Rest.”
“Althia.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever he did, you didn’t owe me today.”
My throat closed.
“Yes, I did.”
“No.”
“You were my patient.”
His eyes softened.
“There she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman I thought my son was smart enough to marry.”
My eyes burned.
I looked toward the window before he could see.
Richard closed his eyes.
Within minutes, he was asleep again.
I walked out of the room.
Preston was waiting.
So was Cecily.
She stood beside him wearing her wedding ring.
They looked like exactly what they were.
Husband and wife.
And when Preston saw my face, he knew I had learned what he had said.
“Althia.”
I walked straight toward him.
“You told your father I refused to come because of personal problems.”
His face changed.
Cecily looked at him.
“Preston?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
May you like
I laughed once.
“Apparently nothing in your life is ever like what it actually is.”
