Chapter 3

The doorbell's echo had barely faded when my father strode into our home, his imposing figure filling the entryway. The concern in his eyes softened when he saw me, but hardened again as his gaze shifted to Chris and Liliana standing awkwardly in the living room.

"Princess," he said, using the childhood nickname he reserved for our most private moments. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, throat tight with emotion I refused to show. "I'm ready to go, Dad."

Chris stepped forward, his business smile firmly in place. "Mr. Carter, this is all just a misunderstanding. Emory's upset about a temporary housing arrangement for my assistant."

"Assistant." My father repeated the word flatly, his eyes flicking between Chris and Liliana. "The one wearing my daughter's jewelry?"

Liliana's hand flew to the pearl earrings she'd forgotten to remove, her eyes widening in that practiced innocent look. "Oh! I was just trying them on. Emory has such exquisite taste."

I watched my father's jaw tighten, the only visible sign of his anger. He was too dignified to create a scene, too strategic to show his full hand. But I knew that look. The Carter empire hadn't been built by men who forgot or forgave.

"Let's collect your things, Emory," he said, turning away from them both.

As we moved toward the bedroom, Liliana suddenly stepped forward, her phone in hand. "Oh, Mr. Carter! Before you go, I thought you might want to see these."

She thrust her phone toward my father, her thumb swiping through a series of photos. Even from where I stood, I could see what they were—intimate pictures of her and Chris. Some from business trips when I thought he was working late. Others in our home, on our couch, in our kitchen.

"Liliana!" Chris lunged for the phone, but the damage was done.

"I just thought Emory's father should know the truth," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "About how desperately she's been clinging to a marriage that ended long ago. It's almost pathetic how she keeps pretending not to notice, rearranging her whole life just to please a man who doesn't want her."

The color drained from my father's face. His hand clutched at his chest, his breathing suddenly labored.

"Dad?" Alarm shot through me as he staggered backward.

"It's... nothing..." he gasped, but his knees buckled, and he collapsed against the wall, sliding slowly to the floor.

"Dad!" I screamed, rushing to his side. "Call an ambulance! Now!"

Chris fumbled for his phone while Liliana stood frozen, her victorious smile fading as she realized the severity of the situation.

The next hours passed in a blur of sirens, hospital corridors, and sterile waiting rooms. The doctors spoke of stress-induced cardiac symptoms, of elevated blood pressure and the need for monitoring. Not a full heart attack, they assured me, but a warning sign.

I sat beside my father's hospital bed, holding his hand as he slept, the steady beep of monitors providing the only soundtrack to my thoughts. My mother was on her way, having been in Paris when I called with the news.

Footsteps in the corridor made me look up. Chris appeared in the doorway, and behind him—like a shadow that refused to be separated—stood Liliana.

"How is he?" Chris asked, his voice low.

"How dare you bring her here," I hissed, rising from my chair.

"Emory, be reasonable. Liliana feels terrible about what happened."

I looked at her face, at the carefully composed mask of concern that didn't reach her eyes. "You did this deliberately," I said. "You wanted to hurt him. To hurt me."

"That's absurd," Chris defended her immediately. "It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Liliana would never—"

"She would and she did," I cut him off, moving around the bed toward them. "She's been trying to destroy our marriage from day one, and you've let her. Encouraged her."

Liliana stepped forward, her voice soft and trembling for Chris's benefit. "Emory, I understand you're upset, but blaming me for your father's health issues is—"

Something in me snapped. All the years of humiliation, of turning a blind eye, of diminishing myself—they crystallized into a single moment of pure, unrestrained fury.

My hand moved before my mind could stop it, the crack of my palm against her cheek echoing in the hospital corridor. Liliana stumbled backward, shock replacing her fake sympathy.

I didn't stop there. I grabbed a fistful of her perfectly styled hair and yanked, hard. "You manipulative bitch," I snarled as she yelped in pain.

Chris threw himself between us, shielding Liliana with his body. "Emory, stop! Have you lost your mind?"

Liliana touched her lip where it had split, a thin trickle of blood staining her fingertip. Her eyes gleamed with triumph even through her tears.

"I'm calling security," Chris threatened, his arm protectively around Liliana's shoulders. "You need to calm down."

"Call them," I said, my voice deadly calm despite the storm raging inside me. "Explain to them why you brought your mistress to taunt your wife while her father recovers from a cardiac event that your mistress deliberately caused."

In that moment, looking at Chris defending the woman who had just hurt my father, I felt the last thread of love I had for him wither and die.