POV Emilia
“Miss Thorne, thank God you’re here. He’s been asking for you every five minutes.”
Wilson’s voice cracks like he’s been chain-smoking anxiety for the past hour. The man who normally runs Dad’s empire with Swiss precision looks like he aged a decade since our last meeting.
“How bad?” I ask, because small talk is for people who aren’t watching their father’s mortality play out in real time.
“Stabilized. Conscious. The worst has passed.” He’s walking fast, heels clicking against marble. “For now.”
The VIP suite looks exactly like it did last weekend—all sterile luxury and medical equipment that costs more than my fake annual salary. Dad’s propped up against enough white pillows to stock a boutique hotel, but he still manages to look like he’s conducting a board meeting from his bed.
“Why are you dressed so ordinary?”
That’s my father—fresh off a heart attack and already critiquing my blouse. The stupidly expensive one I chose precisely because it reads Target to everyone at the office.
“I’m a secretary, Dad. By choice and by cover. What I do matters more than labels, and fancy clothes don’t exactly scream ‘I survive on entry-level wages,’ do they?”
He tilts his head, and for a second I see the man who taught me chess when I was seven. “Fair point. How are you holding up?”
“Better than someone who has just had a heart attack,” I shoot back, lowering into a chair that probably blew someone’s quarterly bonus. “But not well.”
“The cancer cells are still there.” His voice goes quiet, almost contemplative. “Remission is still theoretical.”
And there it is. The truth we keep dodging, oxygen line and all.
“Dad—”
“I want a grandchild.” He pivots like he’s changing PowerPoint slides, but his voice has that rehearsed quality that means he’s been planning this conversation. “I want you to resign from Marlowe Enterprises. If you’re fighting for Adrian Marlowe’s right hand, you’re ready for real responsibility. Our company. Our name. Your life.”
My jaw locks so hard I might need dental work. “Our life, or your company?”
“Both.” No hesitation. Not even a flinch. “And this time, I’ve prepared something better than whatever game you’re playing in that glass tower.”
The honesty shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it does. This is the man who orchestrated my entire career trajectory—the job at Marlowe, the permission to use another name so I wouldn’t live in his shadow, the constant surveillance disguised as fatherly concern.
“You’re trying to strengthen our family or control it?” I ask, but we both know the answer.
“Indulge an old man’s wish,” he says, and his smile is tired but determined. “If it’s my last.”
I roll my eyes because if I don’t, I’m going to cry, and crying in VIP hospital suites feels like admitting defeat.
My phone buzzes. Adrian fucking Marlowe.
“I need to take this.”
The corridor outside is all hushed tones and expensive art—the kind of place where rich people come to die with dignity.
“Marlowe.”
“Your sudden departure has set fires.” His voice is ice-cold professionalism with an edge that could cut glass. “Schedule collisions, missing files, and the indecency of a private photo splashed across our corporate screen. When exactly will you return and work harder?”
The heat clawing up my throat could melt steel. “I’m dealing with a medical emergency.”
“Yes, but our clients—”
I end the call before he can finish because I don’t trust myself to stay measured for another second. Some conversations are landmines, and I just stepped around a big one.
Back in the suite, Dad’s asleep. The machines beep their soft metronome, and for the first time today, he looks fragile. Human. Mortal.
I leave him to gather strength and head for his penthouse because sometimes you need familiar luxury to process unfamiliar chaos.
Melanie answers on the second ring.
“Emergency wine night. My Dad’s place. Now.”
Dad’s apartment is a museum of success—floor-to-ceiling windows, curated art that probably funds small countries, and a liquor collection that could stock a luxury hotel. For once, I let it serve its purpose.
“So,” Melanie says, pouring the kind of liquor that goes down silk-smooth and punishes after, “scale of one to apocalyptic?”
“Apocalyptic with a side of public humiliation.”
I tell her everything. The hacked account, the intimate photo dropped into my Q4 presentation like a digital bomb, the staged chaos designed to make me look careless, Brittany’s victory smile that could power Manhattan.
“And then my dad wants me to have a baby and run his empire while Adrian Marlowe thinks I’m his personal crisis manager.”
Melanie’s quiet for a long moment, swirling expensive liquid in her glass. “You know you don’t have to endure this shit, right? Some offices are poison. Walking away isn’t failure—it’s survival.”
The city flickers beyond the windows, millions of lights representing millions of people who aren’t having the world’s most complicated day. I end up with my head in Melanie’s lap because sometimes you need physical comfort more than solutions.
“What would your mom have said?” she asks, threading fingers through my hair like we’re teenagers again.
“I don’t know.” The empty space Mom left when I was nine feels bigger in Dad’s sterile perfection. “She’s been gone longer than she was here.”
The room goes quiet except for the city humming below us—endless, anonymous, indifferent.
“I’m here,” Melanie says simply.
My breath evens out, the skyline blurs, and I fall asleep wondering if survival looks like staying or running, and whether I’m brave enough for either choice.