The bar is upscale, intimate, exactly the kind of place Manhattan's elite celebrate quietly.
Crystal glasses catch low amber light. Dark wood paneling absorbs sound. Everything designed to make powerful people feel more powerful while appearing humble about it.
"To the new CEO." Zachary raises his whiskey, something expensive and amber that matches his perfectly composed expression. "And to Gideon's spectacular failure."
I clink my glass against his. The scotch burns going down, but I've earned this burn.
"His face when Victoria called him pathetic." I shake my head, letting myself smile. "I thought he might actually stroke out."
"He underestimated you." Zachary leans back in the leather booth, satisfaction evident in every line of his posture. "They all did. Now they're scrambling to realign."
"His allies abandoned him faster than I expected." I trace the rim of my glass, watching the liquid swirl. "Camden was the only holdout, and even he looked nervous about it."
"Self-preservation instinct." Zachary's smile sharpens. "They recognized which direction the wind was blowing."
"Speaking of Gideon." I meet his eyes directly. "What happens to him now?"
"He remains valuable to operations." Zachary's tone shifts to something more measured. Professional. "His connections, his institutional knowledge—these things have worth regardless of his political position."
"No one is irreplaceable." The words come out harder than I intend. "I'll remove him when opportunity allows."
Zachary studies me for a moment. "You've changed since I first met you."
"Had to." I take another sip. "Manhattan doesn't reward softness."
"No." His voice drops lower. "It doesn't."
My phone vibrates against the table.
My heart lurches before my brain catches up. The hope is desperate, irrational, embarrassing in its intensity.
All my thoughts are about Jake. Right now. He could have been drinking whiskey for a week, his headache is gone, and now he's crying that I'm not there, and Tommy tells him he's acting like a child, not a super-hot, daring cowboy. So he definitely has to call.
Jake. Please let it be Jake.
Dr. Elliot's name glows on the screen instead.
I answer immediately. "Dr. Elliot?"
"Miss Ward." His voice is gentle. Professional. Devastated. "I'm calling about your father."
"What happened?" My grip tightens on the phone.
"He passed away twenty minutes ago." Each word lands separately, like stones dropping into still water. "Peacefully. In his sleep. I'm so sorry."
The world goes silent.
Not quiet. Silent. Like someone pressed mute on the entire universe.
I'd spoken to him this afternoon. He'd been tired but lucid. Proud of me. Insistent that I celebrate with Zachary, that we'd done excellent work together.
"See you tomorrow," he'd said.
Tomorrow will never come.
"Miss Ward?" Dr. Elliot's voice reaches me from somewhere far away. "Are you there?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "I'm coming. I'm coming now."
I disconnect. Stare at the phone like it might rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
"Adison." Zachary's hand touches my arm. His brow furrows with concern. "What's wrong?"
"My father." The words taste like ash. "He's gone."
Everything after becomes a blur.
Zachary handled the bill with quiet efficiency. His hand at my elbow, guiding me through the bar, past beautiful people celebrating beautiful victories. The car. Manhattan streets sliding past windows like a film I'm not really watching.
Then I'm standing over my father's body. At the hospital where he died alone.
The machines are silent now. No beeping. No monitors tracking vital signs that told a story neither of us wanted to read. Just stillness. Just absence. Just the shell of Richard Ward lying in a bed that suddenly looks far too large.
Grief pours out of me like blood from a wound.
I don't remember starting to cry. Don't remember when the tears became sobs, when the sobs became something animalistic and raw. I just know I'm breaking apart in a hospital room that smells like antiseptic and finality.
Zachary's arms wrap around me. His shirt absorbs my tears, my makeup, my complete loss of composure. He holds me. Lets me break.
Doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't offer platitudes about peace or better places.
Just holds me while I shatter.
The following days vanish into funeral preparation.
I insist on privacy. Press notified only after the burial. No vultures circling my father's grave. No spectacle for entertainment consumption.
"This is personal," I tell Zachary when he suggests a statement. "They get nothing until it's done."
He nods. Handles it. Handles everything.
I stare at my phone.
Jake knows Richard's condition. Knows how little time remained. We talked about it. He promised to take care of me when my father was gone.
Yet he's sent nothing. Asked nothing.
Two words since he left. Two words and endless silence.
I type: My father died.
Delete it.
Type: Where are you? I needed you. I still need you.
Delete it.
Type: You promised. You promised and you left and now he's gone and you're not here.
Delete it.
My phone sails across the room and hits my pillow with a soft thump. Not satisfying enough. Not even close.
The loneliness is crushing.
It presses against my chest like something physical, making each breath feel like labor. The penthouse is too quiet. Too empty. Full of shadows that used to hold my father's presence.
I curl into myself on my bed. The same bed I've slept in for twenty-one years. The same room where I dreamed about stars and science and freedom.
Now it's just a room. Just walls and furniture and the absence of everyone I love.
I've lost my father. I'm losing Jake. I have nothing left.