Chapter 10 #2
I walked toward the living room. "Dad?"
Still nothing.
Just as I turned toward the hallway, I heard the faint sound of footsteps behind me.
"I'm here, Gracie," Dad called, emerging from his home office with a thick manila folder tucked beneath his arm.
I let out a massive, relieved breath, clutching my chest. "You scared me to death!"
"I did?"
"You know I hate it when you disappear without saying anything!"
Dad smiled apologetically, setting the folder on the counter. "I was just answering a few emails."
I narrowed my eyes, slipping into nurse mode. "Business emails?"
"...Maybe."
"Dad."
"What?"
"You promised me you would reduce your workload!"
"I know."
I walked over and gently straightened his slightly crooked collar. "You work entirely too hard."
"I have someone to nag me about it," he teased.
"And I will keep doing it until you listen."
Breakfast was peaceful. I made toast while Dad brewed his coffee.
Halfway through eating, Dad suddenly coughed.
Twice. Then again. A harsh, wet sound.
I immediately looked up, dropping my knife. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he rasped, waving his hand.
"Dad..."
"Wrong pipe," he insisted, clearing his throat.
I wasn't convinced. I stared at him, my heart rate accelerating. "You should let the doctor check that."
"I literally saw him on Tuesday, Grace."
"And?"
"And he said exactly what you're about to say. 'Take it easy.'"
I folded my arms over my chest. "Then listen to him."
Dad laughed. "Yes, Doctor Grace."
I pointed my butter knife directly at him. "I'm serious."
"I know."
Later that afternoon, I was helping him organize a stack of old contracting files in his home office.
"These go in alphabetical order, Gracie," Dad reminded me from his desk chair.
"I know."
"You mixed the blue corporate folder with the green residential ones."
I gasped dramatically, placing a hand over my heart. "Are you questioning my professional filing skills?"
"I absolutely am."
"I am deeply offended."
Dad smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You'll recover."
"I might not!"
He laughed. The warm, booming sound filled the small office.
I smiled down at the files. I hadn't heard him laugh like that in days. Since the terrifying conversation about the contract marriage, things had felt heavy. But maybe... maybe his health was finally stabilizing. Maybe things were getting better.
Or so I hoped.
Dad reached across the desk for another file.
His hand suddenly froze mid-air.
The heavy folder slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a loud *smack.*
"Dad?" I asked, looking up.
He blinked rapidly. The color entirely drained from his face, leaving his skin a terrifying, ashen gray. His breathing became a sharp, uneven wheeze.
"Grace..." he gasped, clutching his chest.
"Dad?!"
Before I could even reach across the desk, his eyes rolled back. His knees gave way completely.
"Dad!" I screamed.
He collapsed, hitting the hardwood floor with a sickening, heavy thud.
I dropped the files and threw myself onto the floor beside him instantly. My nursing training violently collided with pure, blinding panic.
"Dad! Look at me!" I yelled, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I gently lifted his head into my lap.
His eyes were barely open, completely unfocused. His lips were turning blue.
"Grace..." he rasped, barely a whisper.
"I'm here! I'm right here!"
His breathing was incredibly shallow. Too shallow. Fear violently clawed at my throat, suffocating me. I checked his pulse—it was thready and erratic.
I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket with shaking hands and dialed emergency services, tears streaming hotly down my face.
"Hello! Please, my father collapsed! He has severe heart failure!" I screamed into the phone, giving the operator the address. "Please hurry! He's not breathing right!"
Twenty minutes later, the ambulance was speeding through the city traffic, sirens blaring.
I sat in the cramped back of the rig, holding my father's cold, clammy hand so tightly my own fingers ached.
"You promised," I sobbed quietly, staring at the oxygen mask over his face. "You promised me you were okay."
Dad weakly, barely perceptibly, squeezed my hand.
"I'm... trying," he breathed into the mask.
"Don't talk," I cried, kissing his knuckles. "You need your strength."
The paramedic looked up from the heart monitor. "We're almost there, Miss."
I nodded, but the frantic, terrifying beep of the monitor refused to let my heart calm down.
The hospital corridors were an absolute blur of blinding white lights. Doctors shouting. Nurses running. Machines beeping.
Everything happened so fast I couldn't breathe.
"Miss Zane? You must remain out here," a nurse ordered, physically holding me back as they wheeled his stretcher through a set of heavy double doors.
The private waiting room suddenly felt enormous. And freezing cold.
I sat down in a plastic chair.
I stood up again.
I paced to the window.
I checked the clock on the wall.
Only three minutes had passed. It felt like three agonizing hours.
I collapsed back into the chair and buried my face in my shaking hands. "Please... please be okay."
Almost an hour later, the lead cardiologist finally walked through the double doors.
I jumped to my feet, my heart in my throat. "How is he?!"
The doctor slowly removed his glasses. "Your father is stabilized for now, Miss Zane."
A massive, overwhelming wave of relief flooded through me so suddenly my knees actually buckled. I grabbed the back of the chair to stay upright.
"But..."
My heart stopped instantly.
"The illness has progressed significantly faster than we anticipated," the doctor said quietly, his eyes filled with professional pity.
I stared at him, my brain refusing to process the words. "I don't understand."
"He has been responding to the medication, but this collapse..." The doctor paused carefully. "His condition has severely worsened. His heart cannot take another event like this."
The words struck me harder than a physical blow.
"No..." I whispered.
"I am so sorry."
I shook my head violently, tears blurring my vision. "There has to be something else. A surgery. A new medication."
"We will continue the current treatment to keep him comfortable," the doctor explained softly. "But from this point onward... he must avoid stress completely. His quality of life requires constant family support."
I slowly lowered myself back into the plastic chair.
My ears rang loudly. The doctor's voice became completely distant, muffled behind the roaring in my head.
*...family support... regular monitoring...*
I barely heard anything. Only one devastating sentence remained echoing in my mind.
*His condition has worsened.*
He was running out of time.
That evening, I sat in the sterile hospital room beside his bed.
Dad slowly fluttered his eyes open. I was leaning over his mattress, my head resting awkwardly on my folded arms, my fingers wrapped tightly around his hand.