Page 99 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Morgan,” I say, feeling a flush of anger creep up my neck. “But Dad told meeverything.”

“Did he?” Morgan raises a skeptical eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Okay.”

He shrugs.

My blood runs cold. He knows something. Something specific. Something Daddidn’ttell me.

Before I can formulate a response, before I can even process the implications, my phone rings, shrill and urgent. It’s Carol’s extension.

“Lucy?” Carol sounds panicked, breathless. “There you are! It’s your father! He… he collapsed while visiting the Hammond Tower site! Paramedics are there. They’re taking him to Mount Sinai!”

The world tilts. Morgan’s smug face blurs. The missing files, the cryptic threats, they all vanish. “Mount Sinai? I’m on my way!”

I’m running before I even hang up, pushing past a startled Morgan, ignoring his parting shot of “Do give Richard my best.”

I’ll give you something, you absolute fucking bastard.

I rush through the workplace and past Carol at the front desk. My hands are shaking as I push open the front door.

Collapsed? Dad?

He seemed stressed, sure, worn down, but… collapsed?

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please just be exhaustion. Or bad scotch.

Please.

I burst out onto the street, waving frantically for a cab. Traffic is jammed. Of course it is.

I start running towards the avenue, dodging pedestrians, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs that has nothing to do with exertion.

I finally flag down a cab, and when I’m sitting there alone in the backseat, I break down crying.

The cloying stenchof antiseptic fills the hospital waiting room. Florescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on the worried faces scattered around the room.

I check in at the desk, my voice trembling. The nurse tells me Richard Hammond is in ER, undergoing tests, and someone will update me soon.

Soon. An eternity inhospital time.

I sink onto a hard plastic chair, wrapping my arms around myself.

Stay calm. Panicking won’t help.

Dad has to be okay. He’s stubborn. He’s a fighter.

He survived Mark Blackwell all these years, he can survive this.

Right?

My eyes sting.

Don’t cry again.

Not here.

Not now.

I focus on a water stain on a ceiling tile, tracing its edges with my eyes. Anything to distract from the scenarios playing out in my head.