Chapter 179

Chapter 179
Harper

Sleep was impossible. I paced the quiet house until dawn broke, checking my phone every few minutes. No calls. No texts. The silence was both a relief and a torment.

When I finally gave up and brewed coffee at 5:30 AM, my hands shook so badly I spilled half of it on the counter. The darkness outside seemed to press against the windows, watching, waiting. I kept glancing at the stairs, dreading the moment my children would wake and I'd have to lie to their innocent faces.

At 7:13 AM, my phone finally buzzed. My heart nearly stopped.

"It's done," Ethan's voice was flat, professional. "Dr. Whitaker pronounced him at 6:42 this morning. Heart failure. The press release goes out in thirty minutes."

My throat closed. Even knowing it was staged, the words hit like physical blows. "I understand," I managed, clutching the counter for support.

"The stock will begin falling within the hour," he continued, clinical in his efficiency. "Mr. Blake's team has already requested verification from the medical examiner."

"So soon?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.

"He's been waiting for this opportunity," Ethan replied grimly. "Ms. Hollis will arrive shortly to take you to the Whitaker estate. Mrs. Whitaker has been informed." A pause. "Dr. Bushnell says everything went according to plan."

I ended the call and sank onto the edge of my bed, trembling. Planned or not, Rowan was, for all public purposes, dead. The thought made me physically ill. I rushed to the bathroom and retched, emptying my already hollow stomach.

When I emerged, Samuel stood in the doorway, his small face serious, Grace peering around him.

"Mom? Are you sick?" he asked, his voice filled with concern beyond his years.

I swallowed hard. This was the moment I'd dreaded. "Come here, both of you," I said, guiding them to sit on the edge of my bed. "I have something difficult to tell you."

Grace's eyes widened. "Is it about Dad?"

The question caught me off guard. We'd only recently begun using that term for Rowan.

"Yes, sweetheart," I said, taking her small hands in mine. "There's been an accident. Rowan—your dad—his heart stopped this morning."

Samuel stiffened beside me. "You mean he's dead?" The directness of childhood cut through any euphemism.

I nodded, tears filling my eyes. These weren't false—the pain of lying to my children was very real. "The doctors tried to help him, but they couldn't."

Grace's face crumpled, and she threw herself into my arms, sobbing. Samuel remained still, his face a mask of confusion and disbelief.

"But he was fine yesterday," he said flatly. "He helped with my robot."

"I know, sweetheart. Sometimes these things happen suddenly."

"Are you lying?" Samuel asked, his eyes narrowing. My heart froze. My son was too perceptive for his own good.

"Samuel," I started, then paused, choosing my words carefully. "Sometimes in life we have to face very hard truths. This is one of those times."

He studied my face, then nodded slowly. "We need to be brave for Grace," he said finally, placing a hand on his sister's shaking shoulder.

I nearly broke then, watching my son process grief in the only way he knew how—by taking care of others. I pulled him into our embrace, holding both my children as they absorbed the news that their newly found father was gone.

When Vivien arrived, her eyes were red-rimmed. "You look terrible," she said bluntly, then softened when she saw the children. "Hey, munchkins. Tough morning, huh?"

Grace ran to Vivien, who lifted her easily, while Samuel stood protectively near me.

"The news is breaking," Vivien said, handing me her tablet with her free hand.

BREAKING: Whitaker Holdings CEO Rowan Whitaker, 36, Dies of Sudden Heart Attack

The article included a professional photo of Rowan—powerful, commanding, alive. The disconnect between the image and the headline made my stomach lurch again.

"They're calling it 'the end of a tech dynasty,'" Vivien said, keeping her tone gentle for the children's benefit. "Nancy has asked for us all to come to the estate."

"Do we have to?" Samuel asked, his voice small but determined.

I knelt to his level. "Henry will be there. He's lost his dad too, and he might need friends right now."

Samuel considered this, then nodded gravely. "We should bring something. When Mrs. Peterson died, everyone brought food."

Within an hour, we were dressed in somber clothes, Samuel insisting on a tie that Rowan had given him, Grace clutching a drawing she'd made "for Daddy in heaven." The weight of their genuine grief was almost unbearable. I silently promised them that someday, I would explain everything. Someday, they would understand why this deception was necessary.

---

The Whitaker estate was transformed when we arrived. Security guards lined the driveway, and news vans clustered at the gates like vultures. Camera flashes popped as our car passed. Inside, the usually immaculate foyer was chaotic with staff moving purposefully, phones ringing, voices hushed.

"The vultures didn't waste any time," Vivien muttered, eyeing a reporter who tried to shout a question as we hurried inside.

Ethan met us at the door, his composure remarkable given the circumstances. His eyes, however, held a haunted quality that made my chest tighten.

"Mrs. Whitaker is in the east sitting room," he murmured, then glanced at the children. "Henry arrived early and he's with her. She's... not taking it well."

I nodded, squaring my shoulders. "And... him?"

"Private medical facility. Dr. Bushnell is monitoring. Vitals are... stable," he hesitated slightly on the last word, making my heart skip.

"Define 'stable,'" I pressed, keeping my voice low.

"Alive," Ethan replied simply. "I'll update you when I can. Right now, you need to be seen grieving."

Although Ethan said he was stable, I couldn’t help but worry—those powerful drugs… would there really be no side effects? But I kept my concerns to myself.

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, forcing myself to concentrate on the war at hand.

“Let’s go see Henry and his grandma.” I took the children by the hand and led them inside.

---

The east sitting room fell silent as we entered. Nancy Whitaker sat rigidly on a cream sofa, her face ghostly pale. Her normally perfect hair was disheveled, her eyes vacant and red-rimmed. Henry was beside her, his small hand on her arm, looking lost in a way that made my heart ache.

When Henry saw Samuel and Grace, something in his expression shifted. "You came," he said simply.

Grace broke away from me, running to Henry and wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. Samuel approached more cautiously, but stood close to Henry in silent solidarity.

Nancy's gaze locked on mine, and for a moment, I saw raw hatred. Then something broke. Her face crumpled, and a keening sound escaped her lips that raised the hair on the back of my neck.