Chapter 156
Claire's POV
"These stitches aren't the neatest work I've seen," the doctor at Seattle General said as he examined Emily's wound, "but considering they were done in field conditions, they're not bad. Military medic?"
I nodded, not bothering to correct him. Better to let him think we'd found help from proper military personnel than explain about a former combat medic turned mercenary.
"Will there be scarring?" Emily asked nervously.
The doctor smiled reassuringly. "Some, but it should fade with time. You're lucky—a couple inches to the left, and we'd be having a very different conversation."
Emily glanced at me, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: she hadn't been lucky at all. She'd been shot trying to protect me. There was nothing lucky about that.
After getting Emily settled with prescriptions and follow-up appointments, I called her a cab and insisted she take the rest of the week off. It was nearly midnight by the time I finally arrived at the Stanton family estate in Bellevue.
Nathan was waiting in the entrance hall, looking tired but relieved when he saw me. "You're back," he said, standing up from the bench where he'd been sitting.
"Were you waiting up for me?" I asked, slipping off my heels.
"Just wanted to make sure you got home safe," he said, reaching for my shoes. "Let me take those."
"I can put them away myself," I said, perhaps more sharply than I intended. I opened the shoe cabinet and placed my heels inside, feeling Nathan's eyes on me.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice careful.
"Fine," I said, straightening up. "Just tired from the trip."
Nathan nodded, but I could see the hurt in his eyes, the confusion. Had I done something wrong? No, I just... I couldn't deal with his concern right now, with the weight of his expectations. I needed space.
"Is Father awake?" I asked, changing the subject.
"No, he turned in early tonight," Nathan said. "He hasn't been feeling well."
I frowned. "Is it serious?"
"Dr. Peterson says it's just fatigue, but..." Nathan shrugged. "He's not getting any younger, Claire."
I nodded, feeling a familiar twist of worry in my gut. "I'll go check on him."
I made my way up the grand staircase to the east wing where my father's suite was located. When I knocked on the door, it was Chloe—young, pretty, with blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
"Ms. Stanton," she said, her voice soft. "Your father is sleeping."
I nodded slowly, taking in her appearance. She couldn't be older than twenty-five, and the diamond Tiffany bracelet on her wrist definitely wasn't standard nurse attire.
"How is he doing?" I asked.
"No change," she said. "Would you like to come in and see him?"
"No, I don't want to wake him," I said. "I'll come back tomorrow."
As I turned to leave, Chloe cleared her throat. "Ms. Stanton?"
I looked back at her. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Stanton—Jessica—was here earlier today," she said, her eyes darting nervously. "With her lawyer."
I felt my stomach tighten. "And?"
"They were asking about some stock transfers," Chloe said. "Something about your mother—Margaret—tricking him into signing papers."
I kept my face carefully blank. "Is that so?"
Chloe nodded. "Jessica wants him to sue you. To get the shares back."
Of course she did. Jessica was barely four years older than me, a former Hollywood actress who'd married my father three years ago. She'd given birth to Michael, my father's youngest child, just six months ago. And now she was making her move, trying to secure her son's future by going after mine.
"And what did my father say?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
Chloe hesitated. "He seemed... uncertain. Jessica can be very persuasive."
I bet she could. Especially with a man whose health was failing, whose mind might not be as sharp as it once was.
"Don't worry about it," I told Chloe. "If my father wants to sue me, that's his right."
Chloe's eyes widened. "You're not upset?"
I shrugged. "It's business. And family. Sometimes they're the same thing."
"Should I... should I try to keep Jessica away?" Chloe asked, looking uncertain.
"No," I said firmly. "Don't interfere. Let her do what she wants."
I heard a sound from inside the room—a glass being set down, maybe—and Chloe immediately turned her head. "I should go check on him," she said.
I caught a glimpse through the partially open door. My father, propped up in bed, struggling to reach a water glass. Chloe rushing to his side, helping him drink, her hand gentle on the back of his neck.
I watched for a moment, taking in the scene. My father, once so powerful and imposing, now frail and dependent. And Chloe, young enough to be his granddaughter, tending to him with obvious affection.
Jessica might think she had secured her place as my father's wife, as the mother of his youngest child. But she clearly hadn't been paying attention to what was happening right under her nose.
I turned and walked away, a bitter smile on my lips. Some things never changed. My father might be old and sick, but apparently, he was still very much himself.