Page 139 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
It’s Carol, her voice tight with panic. “Lucy! Oh, Lucy, thank God! It’s your father!”
“What do you mean?” Ice floods my veins. “I just saw him! What happened?”
“He… he went out! This morning! I guess after you left! Someone saw him jogging near the park… and he collapsed! They’re taking him back to Mount Sinai!”
Jogging. He actually went jogging. After I specifically told him not to. After Christopher specifically calmed me down about it yesterday.
Oh my god, Dad, I thought you were joking!
Bile rises in my throat. Horror and a sickening wave of guilt crash over me. I should have known. I should have stayed longer, hidden his running shoes, something!
Before I can process anything further, the door to my office opens. Darius Wade and Rebecca Torres, my ever-present shadows, are there. Their expressions are grim but professional.
“Ms. Hammond,” Darius says calmly, already holding my coat. “We were in the lobby. We heard what Carol said. The SUV’s waiting. Let’s go.”
“Thank you,” I manage before I burst into tears. I take the coat, and quickly rush outside with him.
The ride to the hospital is a blur of flashing lights and numb panic. Darius drives with terrifying efficiency, Rebecca murmuring updates into her phone in the front seat.
I just stare out the window, twisting my hands in my lap.
Please be okay please be okay please be okay.
This is my fault. I should havestopped him. I should have seen how stressed he still was about coming back, even remotely. The return-to-work plan was too much.
At the hospital, it’s déjà vu, but worse. The smell of antiseptic feels sharper, the fluorescent lights harsher.
Darius and Rebecca flank me, guiding me through the ER entrance, handling the check-in while I just stand there, numb.
They find us the same private waiting room as before, taking up unobtrusive positions outside the door.
Waiting.
Again.
This time, the wait feels longer. Colder.
I keep expecting Christopher to walk through the door, but he doesn’t.
When Dr. Finch appears, his kind face is etched with exhaustion and sympathy.
Not a good sign.
“Lucy,” he begins gently, pulling up a chair. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good. Your father suffered a second myocardial infarction. We’ve stabilized him, but there’s significant damage.” He pauses, his gaze meeting mine directly. “The stress… it was too much for his heart. He told one of the nurses he felt overwhelmed thinking about returning to work, even part-time. Said he needed to clear his head, and he went for a run…” Dr. Finch sighs. “Recovery from this one will be long and difficult. He can’t go back to work. Not ever again. Any significant work-related stress… is simply out of the question.”
He can’t go back to work.
The words hang in the air, heavy and final. Noeasing back in. No remote work. No CEO title waiting for him. His career, his identity… gone.
Just like that.
Because of Hammond & Co.
Because of me, pushing him?
Or maybe because he couldn’t let go?
Tears blur my vision.
