My half-sister poured a glass of cabernet straight over my head in front of sixty donors, then gasped and told our father I’d shoved her.
The day after the suspension, I felt a heavy pull toward the family estate. I needed to talk to my father, to explain. He had to know the truth about Julianne.
The drive was short, but it felt long, my mind replaying Dean Holloway’s words. I gripped the steering wheel, the crumpled copy of the Snyder Trust Deed heavy in my purse.
When I arrived, the house was quieter than usual. Mrs. Henderson, the housekeeper, met me at the door, her face etched with concern.
“He’s in the study, dear,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Not feeling his best today.”
A prickle of unease ran down my spine. My father, Dr. Arthur Snyder, had always been frail, his heart condition a constant, quiet worry in our lives.
I found him in his favorite armchair, a book resting unread in his lap. His face was pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Dad?” I said, rushing to his side. “Are you alright?”
He looked up, a weak smile touching his lips. “Maya. You’re here. I heard about… the incident.” His voice was thin, strained.
Before I could correct him, before I could tell him about Julianne’s calculated cruelty or the video, he gasped. His hand flew to his chest, clutching at his shirt.
His eyes widened, a flicker of fear in their depths. A low moan escaped his lips.
“Dad!” I cried, grabbing his arm. He slumped deeper into the armchair, his breathing shallow, ragged. His complexion turned an alarming shade of gray.
Mrs. Henderson, hearing my cry, rushed in. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear God! Arthur!”
She immediately dialed the emergency number. Within minutes, the familiar blue light of the family physician’s car flashed through the study window.
Dr. Evans, a kind, older man who had cared for my father for years, was swift and efficient. He hooked my father up to monitors, checking his pulse, listening to his heart. The air crackled with a silent, terrifying tension.
After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Evans straightened up. My father was resting, his breathing a little more even, but still alarmingly pale.
Dr. Evans took me aside, into the quiet privacy of the hallway. His face was grim.
“Maya,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Your father’s angina has been more frequent lately. His heart… it’s under significant strain.”
My throat felt tight. “Is he… will he be okay?”
“For now,” he replied, shaking his head slowly. “But I must be frank. His cardiac condition is critically unstable. Any major shock, any significant emotional distress…”
He paused, looking directly into my eyes. “A family scandal, a legal battle, anything that creates acute stress… it will likely trigger a fatal cardiac arrest. Possibly a stroke.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. A fatal cardiac arrest. Because of Julianne. Because of the truth.
He saw the understanding dawn on my face. “He needs peace, Maya. Complete peace. No upheavals. No conflict.”
He squeezed my shoulder, a gesture of deep sympathy. “Your father loves you both very much. The thought of his daughters at war… it would crush him.”
I stood there, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I had come here with proof, with a plan to expose Julianne, to clear my name. But now, that plan felt like a death sentence for my father.
The trust deed in my bag, the video on Toby’s drive, the undeniable evidence of Julianne’s malice—all of it became a ticking time bomb. Exposing Julianne would trigger the forfeiture clause, ruin her life, and, almost certainly, kill my father.
The choice that had seemed so clear only moments ago now felt impossible.
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