Claudia stared at the pen. It was black with gold trim, a Montblanc he used for signing billion-dollar contracts. Now, he wanted her to use it to sign away the last three years of her life.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The leather of the sofa squeaked as she shifted, the sound impossibly loud in the tense silence.
"Is this because she's back?" she asked. Her voice was steady, surprising even herself.
Ezequiel didn't flinch. He walked over to the sidebar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal tumbler. He took a sip, grimacing slightly, before turning to face her.
"This has nothing to do with anyone else, Claudia," he said, his tone bored, as if discussing the weather. "This is about us. It's over. It's been over since the day it started."
"You were at the hospital with her," she said. It wasn't a question.
He paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I saw you," she lied, or half-lied. She hadn't seen him just now, in the room, but she had seen the evidence. "You smell like her."
Ezequiel set the glass down with a sharp clink. "You're imagining things. Sign the papers, Claudia. Don't make this difficult. Your father's company is failing. You have no leverage."
Claudia's phone began to vibrate violently against the glass coffee table, the buzzing sound drilling into her temples.
She looked down. The screen lit up with the name Imogene.
Her sister never called. She texted, she emailed, she sent assistants. But she never called unless the world was ending.
Claudia picked it up, her hand shaking. "Hello?"
"It's Dad." Imogene's voice was ice-cold, stripped of all emotion, a terrifying contrast to the chaos she was describing. "He swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. We're at Presbyterian."
The phone slipped from Claudia's fingers. It hit the carpet with a dull thud.
The room tilted. Her father. Suicide.
"Claudia?" Ezequiel took a step toward her, his brow furrowing. "What is it?"
She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. She grabbed her car keys from the table, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. She snatched her purse-the purse holding the secret that could change everything-and bolted for the door.
"Claudia!" Ezequiel's voice turned authoritative. "Stop. You haven't signed."
He reached out, his hand closing around her upper arm. His grip was firm, warm, familiar.
"Let go of me!" she screamed, twisting away from him with a ferocity that shocked them both. She saw his eyes widen. In three years, she had never raised her voice. She had been the perfect, silent statue he wanted.
"Get out of my way," she hissed.
She didn't wait for his reaction. She turned and ran out into the rain.
The drive to the hospital was a blur of red taillights and smearing wipers. The rain hammered against the roof of the Audi, drowning out her own thoughts.
Please don't die. Please don't die. I can't do this alone.
She abandoned the car at the emergency entrance, not caring if it got towed. The sliding doors hissed open, and the wall of noise hit her.
The ER was chaos. Babies crying, machines beeping, people shouting. The smell of wet wool and blood hung heavy in the air.
She spotted Imogene immediately. She was standing near the nurses' station, still wearing her sharp grey business suit. Her posture was rigid, her face a mask of terrifying calm, though her knuckles were white where she gripped her phone.
She was speaking to a doctor in a low, lethal tone. "I don't care about protocol. I care about results. Is he stable?"
Claudia ran to her. "Imogene!"
Imogene spun around. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes were hollow. She grabbed Claudia's shoulders, her grip tight and controlling.
"Where is he?" she demanded, looking behind Claudia. "Where is Ezequiel? Why isn't he here?"
"I... I came alone," Claudia stammered.
"Alone?" Imogene's voice dropped to a whisper that cut deeper than a scream. "Daddy did this because the stock crashed this morning. We are ruined, Claudia. Ruined. We need Sanford money. Why didn't you bring him?"
"He's... busy," Claudia whispered. She couldn't tell her. Not now. Not while their father was having his stomach pumped.
"Busy?" Imogene released her with a shove of disgust. "Useless. You are useless."
She turned back to the doctor, but Claudia backed away, needing air. She walked toward the large glass windows that separated the chaotic waiting room from the main corridor.
And then she saw him.
Through the glass, down the long, quiet hallway that led to the VIP elevators, Ezequiel was walking.
He had followed her? Hope flared in her chest, bright and painful. He had come. He cared.
Claudia pressed her hand against the glass, ready to run to him.
But he didn't turn toward the ER. He didn't look for her.
A man in a white coat-Dr. Baker, the head of Neurology-greeted him. Ezequiel shook his hand, looking concerned, urgent. They walked together toward the private elevator bank.
Claudia's hand slid down the glass.
He wasn't here for her father. He wasn't here for her.
He had come back to the hospital for Alexa. Maybe she had called him. Maybe she needed him to fluff her pillows or hold her hand while she slept.
Her father was dying in a room that smelled of rubbing alcohol and vomit, and her husband was taking a private elevator to comfort his ex-girlfriend over a headache.
The despair that washed over her was total. It was a physical weight, crushing her lungs.
"Ms. Valentine?" A nurse ran out of the trauma room, holding a clipboard. "Are you the daughter? His vitals are dropping. We need a signature for the intubation. Now!"
