CHAPTER TWELVE
ALEXANDER
My daughter called me Dad, and after I leave Isabella’s house, I discover that I am incapable of doing anything productive with the rest of the day.
I remain in the car for nearly forty minutes, parked outside the house while I try to understand what just happened.
The plastic tiara is lying on the seat beside me, absurd against the dark leather, but I cannot bring myself to put it away or let the driver move it.
Somehow, that cheap little thing has become the first thing my daughter ever gave me.
Dad.
The word keeps echoing through me, accompanied by the memory of Lily smiling, correcting the position of my little finger during the tea party, and wrapping her arms around my neck before I left.
I did nothing to deserve any of those gestures, and perhaps that is precisely why they are so difficult to bear.
My assistant, Margaret, calls three times. I reject each call without even checking what she wants, and when the phone rings a fourth time, I answer only because she rarely insists.
“Finally,” she says, making no effort to hide her irritation.
“What happened?”
Her tone changes immediately.
“Your grandfather was admitted to hospital about an hour ago. He had severe chest pain and an arrhythmia.”
Everything inside me turns cold.
“Which hospital?”
Margaret gives me the address as I am already telling the driver where to go. The journey should take almost half an hour, but we make it in fifteen minutes. When I enter the private wing, Richard is standing in the corridor speaking to a doctor.
“He’s stable,” my uncle says, coming toward me.
“What happened?”
“The arrhythmia caused a significant drop in blood pressure, but the doctors think—”
“I want to speak to them.”
“Alex, it may be better to wait until they finish the tests.”
“We’ll talk later.”
I spend the next two hours moving between cardiologists, incomplete results, and an infuriating number of carefully chosen phrases.
No one says Edmund is in immediate danger, but no doctor is prepared to dismiss what happened as a minor scare either.
His heart is weaker, the episodes have become more frequent, and another crisis could have unpredictable consequences.
When I am finally allowed into his room, I find my grandfather awake, attached to monitors, and deeply offended by his hospital gown. Edmund looks smaller in the bed, although his expression is still capable of intimidating the nurse adjusting the cannula in his arm.
I wait until she leaves before approaching.
“You look terrible.”
He opens only one eye.
“So do you.”
I pull a chair closer and sit. The tiara is still inside my coat. I slipped it into the inner pocket before leaving the car and have no idea why I brought it with me.
“I met Lily today.”
Both of Edmund’s eyes open.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“How did it go?”
The memory arrives before I can protect myself from it, and a smile changes my face.
Edmund notices immediately.
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re finished.”
Perhaps I am.
“She likes chocolate and considers that essential information when assessing someone’s character. She also hosts tea parties, insists on proper etiquette, and believes I need a dog because I live alone.”
“A revolutionary child.”
“She made me wear a tiara.”
My grandfather looks at my coat pocket, where a glittering edge must be visible.
“And you brought it with you.”
I take the tiara out and place it in my lap.
“Lily let me keep it.”
Edmund studies the cheap plastic object with more attention than he would give something genuinely valuable.
“I imagine that was a great honor.”
“It was.”
I run my thumb over one of the plastic stars.
“She called me Dad.”
My voice breaks again, a phenomenon that is beginning to irritate me with its frequency. This time, however, Edmund makes no joke. His aged hand closes over mine, and we sit in silence for a few moments.
“I’m glad you heard that before I go,” he says.
I look up sharply.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Not today, I hope, although these doctors seem determined to make staying here unbearable.”
“Don’t make comments like that.”
Edmund sighs but does not argue. Instead, he asks, “And Isabella?”
“She hates me.”
“With good reason.”
“Thank you for the comfort.”
“You came to the wrong room if you wanted someone to soothe your conscience.”
I release a breath that almost becomes a laugh.
“Isabella agreed to two visits a week at first. I still can’t collect Lily from school or take her to my house.”
“That sounds sensible.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t ruin it.”
“Admirably specific guidance.”
My grandfather closes his eyes for a few seconds. His breathing slows enough that I think he has fallen asleep, but then he speaks again.
“There’s something I need to settle.”
“You can settle it when you get out of here.”
“There may not be time.”
“Edmund.”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I am still the only man in this family who can disinherit you and consider the process entertaining.”
The threat would lose some of its force against the backdrop of tubes and monitors if it were coming from anyone other than Edmund Thorne.
“What do you need to settle?”
“Documents relating to my will and the family trust.”
I frown.
“We are not going to discuss your death because you had an arrhythmia.”
“Alexander, I’m eighty-four years old and have a heart that has tried to kill me more than once. Refusing to discuss it is not going to make me immortal.”
“I’m not asking for immortality.”
“You’re demanding a postponement, as though death respects your diary.”
My jaw tightens.
“What about the trust?”
“It needs to be reviewed now that we know Lily exists.”
“I don’t want the money.”
“It isn’t for you.”
“Isabella won’t want it either.”
“It isn’t for her.”
Edmund waits for me to reach the conclusion myself.
“Lily is a Costa,” I say.
“And a biological descendant of the Thornes.”
“I’m not putting our surname on her unless Isabella wants it.”
Something resembling approval appears in his eyes.
“You’re beginning to learn.”
“Slowly.”
“Painfully slowly.”
My grandfather takes a deeper breath before continuing.
“Do you remember the clause concerning the eighteen percent of voting shares?”
I remember the file we reviewed only days before. The shares were to remain in trust until the first eligible biological descendant of the next generation existed.
“Lily is the first descendant.”
“Exactly.”
“So the shares belong to her?”
“If she is recognized as an eligible beneficiary under the original wording.”
“There is a DNA test.”
“The trust is old, Alexander. Old enough to contain language about legitimacy, family recognition, and bloodline that our lawyers have spent decades pretending isn’t offensive.”
My jaw hardens.
“What does the clause actually require?”
“That will depend on legal interpretation. The DNA establishes descent, but the original wording also refers to formal recognition within a legitimate family unit. Our lawyers can argue that acknowledgment of paternity is sufficient. Another interpretation may require the parents to be married, or a court order replacing that requirement.”
“That is an absurd clause.”
“I agree.”
“Then change it.”
“I tried, but the instrument requires approvals I was unable to obtain. That is why I left instructions for the lawyers to defend Lily’s position and use other assets to fund any dispute.”
Edmund’s hand moves toward his chest. The monitor does not change, but I stand immediately.
“That’s enough for today.”
“Sit down.”
“You need to rest.”
“And you need to understand what will happen when I die.”
I sit again, reluctantly.
“Richard will challenge it,” he says.
“Why?”
Edmund looks at me as though the answer should be obvious.
“Because if Lily receives the eighteen percent, Marcus does not. Those shares are not merely money. They carry enough voting power to shift the balance between branches of the family.”
I think of Richard in the clinic corridor seven years ago, then of his presence on the night Isabella left, and finally of how quickly he brought up Daniel Mercer after seeing Lily.
An uncomfortable sensation settles beneath my skin.
“Does he know Lily could be a beneficiary?”
“Not officially. He will when the documents are opened.”
“You’re not going to die.”
Edmund gives me a tired smile.
“We all are.”
“Not today.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I remain beside him until early evening. When I leave, I accidentally forget the tiara on the bedside table, but Edmund sends a nurse running after me to return it.
On Monday, the doctors begin discussing discharge as soon as the arrhythmia is under control. I call my grandfather that evening, and he complains about dinner, the absence of brandy, and a young resident who insists on treating him as though he were fragile.
His voice sounds strong.
I allow myself to believe we have more time.
***
Edmund dies in the early hours of Tuesday morning.
Cardiac arrest.
The hospital calls at 3:46 a.m. I arrive eleven minutes after the doctors stop attempting resuscitation and find the man who raised me after my father died lying motionless in the bed.
I stand there for nearly half an hour without feeling anything. My mind registers details—the hand outside the sheet, the disordered white hair, the absence of movement in his chest—but refuses to accept them as a whole.
Then I feel everything.
I remember Edmund attending school meetings when my father no longer could, teaching me to drive, arguing with me about university, and pretending not to be emotional on the day I took control of the company.
He taught me how to identify lies in financial statements, but he never managed to teach me the difference between caution and cowardice while there was still time for the lesson to matter.
The last important thing I told him was that Lily had called me Dad.
Perhaps that is the only mercy in the entire week.
News of his death reaches the press before dawn. Isabella learns through a report and sends me a message.
I’m sorry. Edmund treated me like family when I was still part of it.
I read it several times before replying.
As far as he was concerned, you never stopped being part of it.
I do not know whether I should have written that, but it is true.
Isabella does not reply.
The funeral takes place three days later beneath a gray sky and a fine drizzle. Isabella comes alone and remains at the back, away from the family and the photographers. She does not approach me or try to offer words neither of us would know how to receive.
Still, she came.
It matters more than it should.
After the burial, Richard approaches and places a hand on my shoulder. Marcus stands a few steps behind him, solemn and uncomfortable in his dark suit.
“Now we need to keep the family and the company united,” my uncle says.
I look at Edmund’s coffin as wet earth begins to cover it.
“Yes.”
Richard believes we are talking about grief, succession, and stability on the board. He does not know that within days, what my grandfather left behind may destroy the balance he spent his life preserving.
At that moment, I still do not understand the full scale of the explosion either.
I know only that Edmund died trying to secure a place for the great-granddaughter he learned about far too late, and I will not allow anyone to take that place away from her.