Page 151 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
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Summer
The rhythmic whoosh-thump of the respirator thuds against my chest, mirroring the whump-whump-whump of my heart. I stare at the man who was… is my father.
I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years and when he’d shown up at my wedding I had ignored him. I had insulted him when he’d turned up on my doorstep— Okay, my husband's doorstep. I had refused my father water. He'd asked for it twice and I had ignored him.
I curl my fingers into fists.
I had been too intent on revenge; on cutting into him with my words; wanting him to feel as broken as I had been in the years after he’d left me. When I’d found out he hadn’t actually died, I’d wished him dead so many times… And here he is, on death’s door. His ribs visible through the hospital gown, his face so pale it blends in with the sheets. When had his dark hair gone so grey? I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
In the blurry images I carried in my head, he’d been tall, larger than life, a wide smile, a full head of dark hair. He’d been some kind of hero… a vision I’d wanted to cling to in my weaker moments. Someone who would one day come back for me and tell me that he was sorry, that he still loved me.
And he had returned. And I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that he still existed. He is the cause of every bad memory from my childhood come to life, and he claimed that he’d done it all for my own good. Typical. Why do parents always think that their children need to be shielded? That they can’t bear what that their parents are going through?
All he’d had to do was take us with him—love us, hate us, we’d have been together, and that’s all that would have mattered.
But he hadn’t.
And here we are in a hospital room. My father had crumpled and Sinclair had caught him before he could hit the floor. My husband had called for his helicopter, then phoned ahead for his private doctors to be on standby. For once I didn't begrudge him his wealth.
We’d arrived at the hospital, and Dad had been rushed in. A cardiac attack. They’d operated on him right away, put in a stent to widen his blocked arteries. Now all I have to do is wait. For what? What am I going to say when he comes around? What will I tell him? What is going to happen to him? To us?
Karma and Victoria were in to see him already, and now they are in the waiting room outside.
I'd put it off, until... until Karma had urged me to go in. She'd told me that if something were to happen to him, I'd regret it if I didn't at least see him. But Dad is in his fifties; nothing is going to happen to him, right?
People survive multiple bypasses and go on to live full lives. Surely, my father will be no different. He'll pull through. He has to. I press my knuckles into my eyes.
The door whispers open behind me, and a shiver runs down my back.
It's him. He's in the room.
Sinclair draws abreast; the scent of bergamot and leather cleaves through the cloud of antiseptic. I draw it into my lungs, hold it, savor it. How many times will I be able to do this?
"How are you?"
These are the first words he’s spoken to me in the last many hours. He’d ensured I didn’t have to deal with the paperwork, the formalities, talking to the doctors. He’d taken care of all of it, leaving me to grieve… What? How things could have been, had my father not abandoned us? How I could have handled things differently with him? Could I have told him everything I carried around in my mind? My father… Sin… Why are my emotions always such a tangled web?
"Bird."
"Summer." My voice is too loud in the room, "My name is Summer."
"You should take a break, go home—"
"No." I glance away, "And it’s not my home."
"Call it mine then." He widens his stance. "Go, eat, take a bath."
"What if he dies while I am gone?"
"He won’t."
"Oh?" I stop the chuckle that bubbles up. Hysteria? No way am I giving into that. Not in front of him. "You think you can stop death?"
"I know it."
I stiffen, "What do you mean?"
