9!Reception !

Sylvia 

As the last of the mourners departed, Maryann and Emily's demeanor shifted, their fake smiles and tears replaced by calculating gazes. They began to survey the gifts and condolence messages, their eyes scanning the offerings with an unseemly enthusiasm.

I watched, my disgust growing with each passing moment. How could they so brazenly display their insincerity? Did they truly believe no one would see through their charade?

Maryann's eyes landed on a particularly generous gift, and she let out a delighted squeal. "Oh, look at this!" she exclaimed, holding up a lavish bouquet. "Isn't it just beautiful?" Emily cooed in agreement, and the two of them began to gush over the gift, their earlier sorrow forgotten.

I turned away, my eyes drifting back to the grave. My father's body lay beneath the earth, and yet his legacy was already being fought over like carrion. I felt a pang of sadness, knowing that he'd been aware of Maryann and Emily's true nature, but had been powerless to change the situation.

As I stood there, lost in thought, I felt a presence beside me. It was one of the funeral directors, a somber-looking man with a kind face. "I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Rhodes," he said, his voice low and respectful. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to reach out."

I nodded, feeling a sense of gratitude towards him. At least someone here was genuine. "Thank you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The funeral director nodded sympathetically and handed me a small package. "This was found in your father's pocket," he explained. "It's for you."

I took the package, my fingers closing around it like it was a lifeline. What could my father have left for me? I opened it, revealing a small note with a single sentence: "Don't let them win, Sylvie."

My heart swelled with emotion as I read the words. My father may be gone, but his legacy lived on, and I was determined to fight for it. I looked up at Maryann and Emily, who were still busy gloating over the gifts. They had no idea what was coming.

I tucked the note into my pocket, feeling a surge of determination. My father's words had reignited a fire within me, and I was ready to take on Maryann and Emily. I glanced at them, still basking in the attention and gifts, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.

As we walked away from the grave, I fell behind, letting them lead the way. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts, to plan my next move. The note had given me a sense of purpose, and I was determined to honor my father's memory by fighting for what was rightfully mine.

The reception was held in the hospital’s auxiliary hall, a high-ceilinged room that had once hosted charity galas and board meetings, now repurposed for a farewell. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, the floral arrangements were tasteful and expensive, and the catering staff moved efficiently between small clusters of guests with trays of sparkling water and finger foods.

As I stepped inside, the air changed. It was warm, perfumed with lilies and perfume and the scent of ambition. The low murmur of voices filled the space, punctuated by light laughter and the clinking of glass. Grief here wore polished shoes and subtle cologne. This wasn’t mourning, it was maneuvering.

Maryann and Emily stood near the center of it all, radiant in their perfectly tailored black dresses, greeting guests like socialites at a fundraiser. Maryann had her hand resting lightly on the elbow of a hospital board member, her laughter delicate and measured. Emily hovered nearby, whispering something to a woman from the donor circle, who giggled in response and glanced in my direction with raised eyebrows.

I inhaled slowly, steeling myself, then stepped in.

Immediately I was met with the practiced smiles of acquaintances, some genuinely kind, some cautiously polite, others watching me like I was a complication they weren’t sure how to deal with. I forced a calm expression, returning handshakes and murmuring thank-yous, all the while my eyes scanning the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

There were fault lines everywhere.

A group of nurses stood to one side, exchanging glances with quiet wariness whenever Maryann passed by. A former colleague of my father’s nodded at me with somber respect, then quickly looked away when Emily caught him doing it. Two members of the hospital’s finance committee, men who had once sung my father’s praises, now lingered near the drinks table, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone from the family.

These weren’t just guests. They were players. And some were already picking sides.

I began to work the room, slowly, methodically. I offered stories about my father, not the glossy kind Maryann told about awards and boardroom decisions, but real ones: about his late-night rounds, the time he personally called the family of a patient who didn’t make it, the way he still used a paper calendar because he never trusted the hospital’s scheduling software.

People listened. Their faces softened. And some of them leaned in.

Across the room, I could feel Maryann watching me. She smiled, but her eyes were sharp and calculating. When I approached the group she had just left, I heard the tail end of her comment, something about “how hard this must be for Sylvia, considering how little time she actually spent here the last few years.” Subtle. Poisoned sugar.

I didn’t take the bait. I responded with grace, thanking her for hosting the reception so quickly, and then turned to share a story about how my father used to take me to the hospital gift shop when I was little, letting me pick out a candy bar after rounds. It was sentimental and disarming. People laughed. Someone patted my shoulder. The narrative was shifting, even if only slightly.

Emily tried another tactic later, during her brief speech. She spoke about the “strong family unity” and how the hospital was “in good hands,” carefully omitting my name entirely. I stood at the back, chin lifted, expression serene.

When it was my turn to speak, I didn’t match their tone, I changed it. I talked about values. About service. About how my father believed that a hospital wasn’t a business, it was a promise. And that his legacy wasn’t just in policies or expansions, but in the people he taught, the patients he saved, the compassion he carried from room to room.

By the time I finished, the room was quiet. Then came a round of applause, scattered at first, then building. Maryann’s smile didn’t falter, but her fingers tensed around her wine glass. Emily looked down at her phone, pretending not to notice.

As the evening wound down and guests began to leave, I lingered near the exit, thanking each person personally. Some paused, squeezed my hand, and whispered things like, “He’d be proud of you,” or “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Promises. Or openings. I took note.

Maryann and Emily stood off to the side as the crowd thinned, their expressions still poised, but no longer relaxed. They looked triumphant, too triumphant. But I knew better.

Because I had watched them fight for appearances. I had fought for the truth.

The game had begun. And unlike them, I wasn’t playing to win power.

I was fighting for my father.

And I wouldn’t lose.