The Ultimatum (2)

ARIA

Morning light filters through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across Dad’s sleeping form. My neck aches from a night in this miserable chair, mascara smudged under my eyes, my brain foggy from snatches of sleep broken by nurses and the steady, relentless beep of the monitors.

The doctor called it a “cardiac event”—not quite a heart attack, but close enough. “His heart is weakening,” Dr. Winters whispered outside the room, voice low and careful, as if the wrong word might shatter me. “The stress, his age, his previous attack… He needs calm and stability. Another episode like this could be fatal.”

I rub my eyes, only smearing the mascara further. My phone screen glows with seventeen missed calls from the office. Monday morning, and for the first time in my life, I’m not there to open the doors.

The click of expensive heels carries down the hall before Victoria appears in the doorway, flawless in a dove-gray suit, every strand of hair in place despite the hour. She glides in with a leather portfolio and a garment bag, which she hangs on the back of the door without a word.

She barely glances at me. “Good, you’re awake. We have a lot to cover before he wakes up.”

I fold my arms, jaw set. “I’m not talking about anything until I speak to Dad.”

Her smile stretches thin, not quite reaching her eyes. “Your father’s been sedated for his own good. Dr. Winters says he’ll sleep until noon. That gives us four hours to get you ready for your meeting with Xavier Harrington at one.”

My exhaustion vanishes in a jolt of panic. “Today? That’s impossible. I need time to—”

“Time is the one thing we don’t have.” She’s already opening the portfolio, crisp and efficient. “The contract signing was supposed to be this morning. I managed to buy us a few hours by claiming a family emergency—which, thanks to your father’s collapse, isn’t even a lie.”

The way she says it, so casual, makes me flinch. “I need to know exactly what’s happening with Dad’s company before I agree to anything.”

For a moment, something almost like respect flickers in her eyes. “Fair enough. Here’s the situation: When I married your father, Taylor Architectural Design was already in trouble. The recession hit commercial real estate hard, and your father—well, he refused to adapt. He cared more about quality than profit margins. Admirable, maybe, but financially suicidal.”

She slides a document across the table, the paper whispering against the cheap wood. “Harringtons offered a lifeline—a series of loans to keep the company afloat while we restructured. Your father, grieving and distracted, signed without reading the fine print.”

I scan the document, my business degree kicking in, slicing through the legalese to the brutal truth. “He put up the company as collateral? All of it?”

“And the house,” Victoria adds, her voice flat, almost bored. “The house your mother designed, where you grew up. Everything.”

My hands tremble as I set the paper down. “Why would he do this?”

She leans back, arms folded. “For you. He wanted to leave you something of value. He couldn’t bear the thought of failing your mother’s memory by losing the company they built together.”

For a heartbeat, her mask cracks, and I see something raw and real in her eyes. “I may be a lot of things, Aria, but I’m not blind to love. Your father adores you. Every compromise, every bad decision—he made them trying to protect you and your inheritance.”

The vulnerability vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Victoria straightens, businesslike again. “Unfortunately, sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. The loans are due, and without the Harrington-Pierce-Taylor merger, Xavier has every right to call them in immediately.”

“There must be other options.” I can already hear the hopelessness in my own voice, my mind racing through numbers, contacts, possibilities. None of them are enough.

She pulls out her phone, taps, and holds out the screen. A headline blares:

Harrington Consolidated Acquires Failing Johnson Family Hotels; Century-Old Business Dismantled.

She watches my face as I read. “Three generations, destroyed in a week. The patriarch had a stroke when the acquisition was announced. The son committed suicide two days later.”

I look up, nausea rising. “You’re saying he’d do that to Dad?”

She doesn’t blink. “He’s done it before, to people with more money and power than Robert Taylor. Your father wouldn’t last a week.”

I glance at Dad, so still, the monitors counting out his fragile heartbeat. The weight of it all presses down on me, heavy and suffocating.

“What exactly would this… arrangement… mean?” The words taste bitter.

Victoria’s lips curve, satisfaction flickering there. “A marriage contract, initially for one year. Renewable if both parties want it. You become Mrs. Xavier Harrington, attend the social events, play your part. In return, your father’s debts get restructured on very favorable terms.”

I stare at her. “And if Xavier refuses when he sees it’s me and not Vivian?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “He won’t. His grandmother—Eleanor—wants this merger as much as I do. Old money needs new money, and new money needs old connections. Xavier will do what she wants, whether he likes it or not.”

My mind scrambles for an exit. “I want to talk to a lawyer. Someone independent.”

“There’s no time.” She waves it off, already bored. “Besides, the contract is standard for these kinds of arrangements.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Arrangements of this nature. You mean selling me off like property.”

Her own laugh is sharp. “Don’t be melodramatic. I’m giving you the chance to save your father’s life and legacy. Most women would kill for the opportunity to marry Xavier Harrington.”

“Then let one of them do it.”

She shakes her head, not missing a beat. “None of them are Robert Taylor’s daughter.” A glance at her watch. “We need to go. The boutique is expecting us at nine, and you’ll need a lot of work before you’re presentable.”

I don’t move, just reach for my father’s hand. “I’m not leaving him.”

She sighs, exasperated. “The nurses have my number. They’ll call if there’s any change.” She stands, smoothing her suit. “The garment bag has something suitable for today. Change quickly. The car is waiting.”

Still, I hesitate. Victoria’s voice hardens, slicing through the stale hospital air. “Every minute you stall is another minute your father’s company inches closer to disaster. But by all means, sit here holding his hand if you think it’ll help. I’m sure he’ll understand when he wakes up homeless and facing criminal charges.”

The threat hangs between us, as real as the antiseptic and the beeping monitors.

I stand, press a kiss to my father’s forehead, and grab the garment bag. At the nurse’s station, I pause. “I’ll check my phone every fifteen minutes. Call me if anything changes. Anything at all.”

Then, with the weight of everything pressing down on me, I follow Victoria out.