The office day bleeds into evening, and I'm finally heading for the exit when chaos erupts.
Journalists swarm the building entrance like predators who've been waiting all day. Cameras flash. Microphones thrust toward my face. Questions assault me from every direction.
"Miss Ward! Is it true you're sleeping with your father's friend?"
"Who's the cowboy from the gala?"
"Are you still engaged to Charles Pemberton?"
"What's your relationship status?"
The questions hit like physical blows. Each one a reminder that my private life has become public entertainment.
Zachary materializes at my side, his body forming a barrier between me and the press.
"No comment. Miss Ward has no statement at this time." His voice carries practiced authority, deflecting with efficiency I couldn't muster if I tried.
His hand finds my elbow, guiding me toward the waiting car while cameras flash like weapons aimed at my face.
"Keep your head down," he murmurs. "Don't react. Don't give them anything."
I follow his instructions. Let him shield me. Let someone else handle the assault I don't have energy to fight.
The car door closes, sealing me in blessed silence. Zachary slides in beside me, already checking his phone for damage assessment.
"We'll handle this," he says. "Focus on your father."
Right. The hospital. Another performance. Another mask to wear.
I arrive at my father's room already drained. The walk from the elevator feels endless, each step heavier than the last.
Then I see him.
Richard Ward—diminished. Gray. The disease eating him alive while machines beep steady rhythms that mean nothing and everything. He's smaller than yesterday. Smaller than I've ever seen him.
My composure crumbles.
The tears come before I can stop them. Silent. Hot. Running down my cheeks while I stand frozen in the doorway.
His eyes find me immediately. Sharpen despite the weakness.
"Adison." His voice is rough but alert. "Something happened at work."
"My life isn't entirely about your company." The words come out sharper than I intend. Defensive. Raw.
He doesn't flinch. Just watches me with an expression I don't recognize.
"I'm sorry." The apology is quiet. Real. "Tell me what's wrong. Please."
The please undoes me.
I cross to his bedside. Sink into the chair I've occupied for too many hours. And for the first time since arriving in Manhattan, I talk to my father honestly.
"Jake is changing." My voice breaks on his name. "Being here—being in your world—it's turning him into someone I don't recognize."
Richard listens. His hand finds mine on the blanket, weak fingers curling around my palm.
"He's becoming controlling. Possessive. Afraid to let me grow into who I'm becoming." I swallow hard. "He reminds me of you."
The observation lands. I watch my father absorb the comparison.
"Jake and I were close once." His voice carries old pain. "Before Elena. Before everything complicated our friendship." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Environment shapes behavior. Manhattan does things to people. Brings out their worst fears."
"That doesn't excuse it." I sob almost like a child.
"No." He squeezes my hand weakly. "It doesn't."
Silence stretches between us. Then his expression shifts.
"I've seen the press coverage." His eyes hold mine steadily. "The gala. The speculation."
My stomach drops. Here it comes. The criticism. The disappointment. The lecture about protecting the family name.
"You closed Henderson." His voice carries something unexpected. "Noel Henderson hasn't taken a meeting with anyone under thirty in decades. You charmed him. Convinced him. Won his respect."
I stare at him. "You're not angry?"
"I'm impressed." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "That man doesn't impress easily."
"You always underestimated me." The words escape before I can stop them. "Always saw me as something to manage instead of someone to believe in."
Richard's expression crumbles. "I know." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I spent so long trying to protect you from the world that I never saw who you actually were."
"And now?"
"Now I'm glad Jake saw what I couldn't." He shifts against his pillows, exhaustion pulling at him. "He recognized your brilliance when I was too blind to notice."
"Jake's not perfect." I'm crying again. Can't seem to stop. "He's jealous and territorial and he doesn't understand this world."
"But he loves you."
"How do you know that?" The question comes out desperate. Childlike.
Richard's smile deepens despite the pain. "Because he left the ranch for you."
I blink. "What?"
"Jake Sullivan has never left that property for anyone." My father's voice carries certainty. "Twenty years I've known him. Invited him to galas, weddings, funerals. He always refused. Said he belonged in Texas." His eyes find mine. "And then you decided to fly to New York, and he was with you right away."
The observation lands somewhere deep.
"That ranch is his entire identity." Richard continues. "His security. His proof that he built something that couldn't be taken away. And he walked away from it the moment you needed him."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It means everything." His hand squeezes mine with surprising strength. "A man like Jake doesn't abandon his world for someone he's using. He abandons it for someone he can't live without."
The tears fall faster now. Something breaking open inside my chest that I've been holding together with pure will.
"I'm proud of you." Richard's voice is barely above a whisper. "I should have said it years ago. Should have said it every day. I'm sorry for everything, Adison. For the choices I made. For the person I tried to make you become."
I launch myself at him. Careful of the tubes and wires, but desperate for contact. My arms wrap around his frail body, and I bury my face in his shoulder.
"Don't die." The words come out broken. Childish. Everything I've been trying not to say since Maria called. "Please. Please don't leave me."
His hand finds my hair. Strokes weakly. "I love you."
"I love you too." I'm sobbing now. "I'm sorry I stayed away. Sorry I was so angry. Sorry for everything."
"Shhh." He holds me as best he can. "You're here now. That's what matters."
We stay like that. Father and daughter. Two people who've spent years hurting each other, finally honest about the damage.
Outside the window, Manhattan glitters. Beautiful and poisonous and somehow less terrifying than it was this morning.
I don't know what happens next. Don't know how to fix things with Jake or survive the press or save my father's empire.
But I know this: Richard Ward is proud of me. And he's sorry.
That's more than I ever thought I'd get.