Chapter 16
DAISY
"Looking better today," I told Dad, adjusting his pillows as he sat up in the hospital bed.
Three days post-surgery, and color had returned to his face. The terrifying paleness replaced by his usual ruddy complexion.
"Feel like I got run over by a semi," he grumbled, but the twinkle was back in his eyes. "But the doc says I'm exceeding expectations. Whatever that means."
"It means you're too stubborn to follow a normal recovery timeline," I teased, relief making me lightheaded every time I looked at him.
Dad's gaze shifted to the massive arrangement of flowers by the window—courtesy of the Broken Throttle MC wives and girlfriends.
"Still can't believe bikers are paying for my ticker," he said, shaking his head. "World's gone strange, Sunshine."
I smiled at the nickname, checking my watch. "Ghost is bringing the final paperwork today. You'll sign as witness since it involves your medical care."
"Ghost," Dad repeated, still adjusting to the idea. "The computer fella. The one who hovers around you like you might disappear if he blinks."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "He doesn't hover. He's implementing security protocols."
Dad's eyebrow rose in a perfect imitation of my own skeptical expression. "That what they call it these days?"
"Dad," I warned, though there was no heat in it.
His expression softened. "He seems... intense. But Sophie vouches for him. Says he's the most trustworthy of the bunch, just shows it differently."
That was surprisingly insightful from Sophie. And accurate.
"He's complicated," I acknowledged. "But he's been... incredible through all this."
Dad studied me with the perception that had always seen straight through my carefully constructed personas. "You like him."
Not a question. An observation.
Before I could formulate a response, a commotion in the hallway caught my attention. Raised voices. One familiar enough to send ice through my veins.
Brandon.
"Sir, you can't—" A nurse's protest cut short.
"I'm on her approved visitors list. Check your system. Brandon Mitchell." His voice carried that smooth, professional polish that had once impressed me. Now it just sounded artificial.
I froze, looking frantically for my phone to trigger Ghost's alert. It was in my purse, across the room.
Too late. The door swung open, and Brandon stood there—designer casual wear, perfectly styled hair, smile that had once seemed charming but now looked predatory.
"Daisy, sweetheart," he said, as if we were still together, as if the past months of harassment hadn't happened. "I've been so worried."
Dad's monitors beeped faster—his heart rate increasing with stress I couldn't afford him experiencing.
"Brandon," I said carefully, moving to position myself between him and Dad's bed. "You shouldn't be here."
"When I heard about your father, I had to come." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "The flowers are from our old team at the agency. Everyone sends their best."
I hadn't noticed the smaller arrangement he carried. My attention was fixed on his expression—the calculating look behind the concern, the way his eyes cataloged the room, lingered on the club's larger arrangement.
"Thank you for the sentiment," I said firmly. "But we're not accepting visitors right now. Dad needs rest."
"Don't be silly," Brandon replied, that familiar dismissive tone creeping in. "I came all this way. We have things to discuss."
Dad's machines beeped again—warning sounds I recognized from the past few days.
"Brandon, you need to leave," I stated more forcefully. "Now."
His expression hardened. "Is this because of your new biker friends? Your content's gone downhill, Daisy. Motorcycles and literacy programs? Where's the aesthetic we built? The brand identity I created for you?"
"You didn't create anything," I countered, anger replacing fear. "My content. My work. My choices."
Brandon stepped closer, voice dropping to that persuasive tone he'd used whenever I'd questioned his creative "guidance."
"You're better than this small-town, small-time operation. Come back to Chicago. The agency would hire you immediately with my recommendation. We can rebuild the brand properly."
"The brand is doing fine," I replied. "Better than ever, actually. Metrics don't lie."
His face darkened. "Because you're selling access. I've seen the club content. Guess that's one way to get engagement—sleep with the subjects."
"That's enough." Dad's voice, weakened but sharp with parental outrage.
Brandon barely glanced at him. "With all due respect, sir, your daughter's making professional mistakes that will ruin her career. I'm trying to help."
"By stalking her?" Dad challenged. "By sending threatening messages? By showing up uninvited at a hospital?"
Brandon's mask slipped further, revealing the cold calculation beneath. "I've been monitoring her content to protect our shared intellectual property. The brand concepts were developed under my professional guidance."
"There is no 'our,'" I stated firmly. "Hasn't been for a long time. You need to leave, Brandon. I won't ask again."
"Or what?" he challenged, closing the distance between us. "Your biker boyfriend isn't here. Security's understaffed. No one's monitoring visitor access. I checked."
The door opened behind him.
"Incorrect assessment," Ghost's voice cut through the room like ice. "Security monitoring active at all access points."
Brandon turned, taking in Ghost's imposing presence—six-foot-plus of barely contained intensity, club cut over black hoodie, expression deadly calm in a way that was more frightening than outright anger.
"Who the hell are you?" Brandon demanded, though the slight waver in his voice betrayed his bravado.
"Ghost," he stated simply. "Daisy's security detail."
Brandon recovered quickly, professional mask sliding back into place. "Brandon Mitchell. Daisy's creative partner and brand developer. We were just discussing her career trajectory."
"Negative," Ghost countered flatly. "You were trespassing. Causing distress to a cardiac patient. Harassing a woman who has documented your stalking behaviors."
Dad's machines settled as Ghost moved to stand beside me, his presence solid and reassuring.
Brandon's eyes narrowed, assessing Ghost with the calculating gaze of someone used to measuring opponents.
"I've seen you," he said suddenly. "In the background of her location photos. Watching. Following. Interesting definition of 'security detail.'"
"Leave," Ghost stated, the single word carrying unmistakable threat.
Brandon smiled, an expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm going. But this conversation isn't over, Daisy.
The content you're posting? I've been documenting everything.
Motorcycle club operations. Member identifications.
Facility layouts. Quite valuable information to certain interested parties. "
Ghost moved so fast I barely registered it, closing the distance to Brandon in two strides. He didn't touch him—didn't need to. His presence alone, looming over Brandon, was enough to make the other man step back.
"That," Ghost said quietly, "was a mistake."
The door burst open again, this time revealing Diesel's massive frame. Hospital security flanked him, looking nervously between the bikers and Brandon.
"Problem?" Diesel asked, the casual question belied by his ready stance.
"Escort required," Ghost stated, not taking his eyes off Brandon. "Visitor leaving. Permanently."
Brandon looked between them, weighing options before settling on a strategic retreat.
"This isn't over," he said to me, trying to maintain control even as it slipped away. "We'll talk when your watchdogs aren't around."
"That won't happen," I replied steadily. "Goodbye, Brandon."
As Diesel and security led him away, I turned to check on Dad. His monitors had stabilized, but the encounter had clearly exhausted him.
"I'll get the nurse," I said worriedly.
Ghost nodded. "Already alerted. En route now."
Of course he had. Ghost never missed operational details.
"How did you know?" I asked once Dad was being checked by the medical staff. "We're not scheduled to meet until this afternoon."
Ghost's expression remained focused, alert. "Perimeter monitoring identified Mitchell's vehicle entering hospital grounds. Facial recognition confirmed identity at main entrance."
"You've been watching the hospital," I realized. "All this time."
"Affirmative," he acknowledged without hesitation. "Standard protection protocol."
But there was nothing standard about the intensity in his gaze, or the way he'd positioned himself protectively beside me from the moment he'd entered.
"Thank you," I said simply. "For being here. For knowing."
Ghost nodded once, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Always."
The single word carried more weight than any elaborate declaration could have.
And despite everything—Brandon's threats, Dad's condition, the strange new reality of my life—I felt something settle inside me. Something that felt remarkably like trust.