The private medical wing at the Sterling Estate was shrouded in quiet, clinical warmth. Soft amber light filtered through floor-to-ceiling tinted glass, illuminating the steady, rhythmic pulse of heart monitors.I stood at the foot of the bed, my fingers clasped so tightly around the edge of my purse that my knuckles turned ghostly white. On the bed lay my father, Arthur Mercer. His face was pale, lined with the harsh toll of his ordeal, but his eyes—open, clear, and steady—were focused entirely on me."Chloe," my father rasped, his voice weak and paper-thin, yet carrying a familiar warmth that brought a hot flood of tears to my eyes."Dad," I choked out, rushing forward to drop to my knees beside his bed. I caught his thin, frail hand in both of mine, pressing it to my cheek as tears spilled over my lashes. "Oh God, Dad... you're awake. You're really awake.""I'm here, sweetheart," he murmured softly, his thumb feebly brushing against my cheek. His eyes drifted over my formal midnigh
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