Chapter 5

When I came back to myself, I was staring at a hospital ceiling.

Dad was the only one in the chair next to the bed. He looked like he'd aged ten years in one night.

I'd missed the competition.

No — I hadn't missed it. It had been ripped away from me.

Whatever small flame of hope I'd built in my chest — it had been snuffed out. All that was left was ash.

I found out later that Ethan had gotten the signature anyway. How, I don't know. Dad never said, and I never asked.

He and Vivienne got their marriage license.

A vivid, brutal red.

While they were planning their wedding, Dad sat down in front of a handful of relatives in our kitchen and signed a formal letter of disownment.

Some kids come into the world just to collect a debt from you, he said, folding the paper away, sounding almost detached.

Once the debt's paid, so is the bond. Cutting it clean is better for everyone.

I nodded.

I couldn't get a single word out around the knot in my throat.

After that, Ethan came back a few more times.

Sometimes carrying something. Sometimes just standing in the street, staring up at the house.

Dad wouldn't open the door.

I shut myself in my room. I didn't even want to see his shadow on the curtains.

On the wedding day itself, Dad sat in the living room, motionless.

He stared out the window as if he'd been stripped of everything.

Then the doorbell rang.

A polished, well-dressed man in his fifties was standing on the porch, holding an enormous gift basket, smiling like we were old friends.

"Charles. Never thought I'd be calling you in-law someday..."

It was the man who had destroyed him.

Victor Sterling, playing humble, there to ask Dad to come to the wedding.

"I know you're still angry about what happened to Eleanor. But that was an accident. None of us could've predicted—"

"Get out."

The second Victor said my mother's name, Dad's face went scarlet.

His finger shook as he pointed at the door. His whole body was shaking.

"Charles, listen, I was wrong back then — but it's been twenty years. Today is our children's wedding. If you, as the father, don't show up—"

"I said GET OUT!"

Dad lurched to his feet. His vision blacked out. His hand flew to his chest, and he pitched backward.

Vivienne, who'd been hanging back behind her father, went sheet-white and grabbed at Victor's sleeve, trying to get him out the door.

I lunged and caught Dad before he hit the floor. My other hand was already dialing 911.

The paramedics came screaming up the street and took him to Boston Memorial.

The ER attending took one look at the scans and his face locked down.

"Acute hypertensive hemorrhagic stroke. We need a neurosurgery consult now."

The only person who could do that consult was the rising star of Boston Memorial's neurosurgery department.

Who was, at that exact moment, getting married.

My hands were shaking as I scrolled through my blocked contacts and pulled his number out.

It rang for a long time. He picked up.

I could hear the wedding reception roaring behind him. Laughter. Music.

"Ethan! Dad — Dad collapsed, it's a stroke, we're at Boston Memorial, you have to—"

My voice was cracking.

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

Then Ethan, cold and tired and almost irritated —

"Anna. This is my wedding day. You really had to pick today to pull a stunt like this?"

"No — Ethan, please, it's real, Dad is—"

"Enough."

He cut me off. His voice was ice.

"I'm not falling for it. This wedding is happening today. You can stop with the guilt-trip."

The line went dead. The dial tone cut into my ear like a dull knife.

I was standing in an empty hospital corridor, holding my phone.

The doors to the trauma bay were closed.

I was so cold I couldn't feel my hands.

Dad didn't make it.