POV Emilia
The hospital smells like disinfectant and impending doom, which pretty much matches my current emotional state.
I all but run through moneyed corridors—glass, chrome, too-bright art—past nurses whose faces say wealthy family in crisis. My heels click against marble floors like a countdown timer to whatever fresh hell is waiting in Dad’s room.
When I push through the door, he looks like a ghost of the corporate titan who used to terrify board members with a single glance. The machines surrounding his bed beep in that rhythm that sounds like borrowed time, and his skin has that translucent quality that screams “not long for this world.”
“Hi, Dad.” I settle into the chair that’s become my second home. “How are you feeling?”
He opens eyes that still hold that calculating spark, even though his body’s basically given up the fight. “Like I’ve been hit by a corporate merger.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I saw the headlines this morning.”
Of course he did. Even dying, Daniel Hart keeps his finger on the pulse of anything that might affect his daughter’s reputation or his business interests.
“Dad—”
“Did I pressure you into this?” He struggles to sit up slightly, and I resist the urge to help because he’s always hated appearing weak. “The fake engagement. Did you feel like you had to do it because of what I asked?”
The question hits like a slap across the face. Here he is, barely hanging onto life, and he’s worried about whether he manipulated me into corporate performance art.
“It was my decision,” I tell him, which is technically true even if the circumstances were completely fucked.
“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.” The endearment comes out rough but genuine. “I’ve spent my entire career reading people’s tells. You did this because you thought it’s what I wanted.”
I stare at him, processing the fact that my master-manipulator father is having a deathbed crisis of conscience about manipulation.
“Maybe partly,” I admit. “But also because it solved problems for both Adrian and me.”
“I’m sorry.” The words come out like they’re physically painful. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Emilia.”
“For what?”
“For pressuring you. For trying to control your life from a hospital bed. For thinking I could orchestrate your happiness like a business deal.” His breathing’s getting labored, but he keeps talking. “I wanted you settled before I go. Wanted to know someone would take care of you.”
“Dad, I can survive with or without a man.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but fuck it. “I’ve been taking care of myself since Mom left. I’ll be fine.”
“I know that.” His smile is weak but proud. “You’re stronger than I ever was, stronger than your mother. You could run empires and never need anyone.”
“Then why—”
“Because I don’t want you to have to.” He reaches for my hand with fingers that feel like paper. “I want you to have someone to lean on. Someone who’s your rock when this cruel world tries to break you down.”
The vulnerability in his voice does something to my chest that feels dangerously close to crying, which I absolutely cannot do right now.
“I want you to have what your mother and I never had,” he continues. “Real partnership. Someone who sees you for who you are, not what you can do for their bottom line.”
“Like Adrian?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He squeezes my hand with what little strength he has left. “That’s for you to decide. Not me, not Richard Marlowe, not the fucking board of directors.”
The profanity sounds weird coming from him in this sterile hospital setting, but somehow it makes everything feel more real.
“I won’t pressure you anymore,” he says, closing his eyes like talking is exhausting him. “If you don’t want to be with Adrian, then don’t. If this engagement is causing you pain instead of joy, end it.”
“Dad—”
“Promise me something.” His grip tightens slightly. “Whatever you choose, choose it for yourself. Not for me, not for Hart Industries, not for anyone else’s expectations. Just… be happy, sweetheart. That’s all I really want.”
My throat feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with hospital air. “I promise.”
“Good.” His breathing evens out, getting slower and deeper. “That’s good.”
I sit there watching him doze off, processing the weirdest fucking conversation of my life. My control-freak father just gave me permission to blow up the corporate arrangement he’s been orchestrating for months. The man who’s spent my entire life treating me like a strategic asset just told me to choose happiness over business interests.
And somehow, that makes everything infinitely more complicated.
Because now I have to figure out what I actually want, without the convenient excuse of family pressure or corporate obligations. Now I have to decide if Adrian’s confession this morning was real or just panic over our exploding fake engagement.
Now I have to choose between the safety of strategic arrangements and the terrifying uncertainty of actual feelings.
Dad’s asleep now, looking smaller and frailer than I’ve ever seen him. The monitors beep their steady rhythm, and I realize this might be one of our last real conversations.
Which means whatever I decide about Adrian, about the engagement, about my entire fucking future, I’m deciding it on my own terms.
For better or worse, I’m finally free to choose my own disasters.