This can’t be happening.

No. It’s not real.

I sit in the corner of the emergency operating room waiting area, not sure how to think or feel.

The nurse at the desk down the hall told me that my father is in surgery. Dad had a stroke. My father? The stream of questions won’t stop. How could he have had a stroke when he’s the healthiest person I know? How could it have happened so quickly? His unanswered messages and texts that have been coming on my phone all day haunt me. What did Dad want to talk about?

Vanessa squeezes my shoulder from her spot in the seat beside me, doing her best to show her support. She means well, but nothing can console me right now. I want answers. I need to know why I haven’t been able to see him for the almost two hours since I’ve been here. And where’s Jace? I texted him as soon as I got the call from Vernon. God, I need him so bad right now.

Then she walks in.

Peggy Reid-Buchannan.

She has the unique pleasure of being Dad’s second and fourth ex-wife. Dad married and divorced her, then remarried her after he ended it with Kiki, his third wife. Then he divorced her again after she found him in bed—in their bed—with another woman. Not Kiki.

Why is she even here? Dad divorced her for a second time over a year ago. I have to wonder who would have even told her Dad was undergoing emergency surgery. She catches sight of me as she walks in wearing an elegant black lace and tulle Christian Dior evening gown with a hem that flows right to the floor, barely showing her crystal on white- Jimmy Choo pointy toe pumps. As always, she’s the height of poise and composure, and doesn’t have so much a single misplaced strand of hair on her blonde shoulder-length bob. She’s also the reason I’ve built up this knowledge of everything haute couture. And my aversion to it. Of all the ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, and ex-playthings that Dad had after he lost my mother, Peggy was the most entrenched in New York’s elite. Too bad she also stuck around the longest.

“Oh my God, Cherry,” she croons to me, crossing the room to give me her usual, a fake air-kiss on both sides of my face. “I came as soon as I heard. How is he?”

“I’m not sure. He’s still in surgery.”

She pulls back, inspecting my face and clothes as she straightens up. “Goodness, dear. You look a mess.”

I look down my body and shrug. I can see why she thinks that way. This pink on cream striped button-down blouse and light gray pencil skirt that I wore to work today are from a cute indie boutique near where I live. That’s bottom rung wannabe designer trash, in Peggy’s opinion. As a renowned socialite, the woman probably doesn’t own a pair of jeans.

But I’m not here to impress my dad’s ex-wife.

“How did you find out?” I ask to redirect the conversation to where it should be. She has no business being here in the first place.

“You can’t be serious, dear,” she haughtily drags out the words as she leans carefully against a nearby wall. Peggy wouldn’t dare sit down in her designer dress. Not here, where the Petri dish of the city congregates, as she would say. “Your father and I may not be together anymore, but we’ve always remained close. Gerald’s staff all know that.”

Thank God for small miracles. Erica Meyer arrives. She’s Dad’s family lawyer and also happens to be his first cousin. Erica may be the only woman in Manhattan who Peggy can’t intimidate. I rise to my feet to greet her, but Vanessa gives my shoulder an extra-quick squeeze to get my attention. “That must be one of the surgeons,” she tells me, nodding over in the opposite direction.

With some hesitation, I head over, followed closely by Peggy and Erica.

Erica runs a hand over the side of her head, tucking some of her jet black hair behind her ear. She smooths out the jacket of her navy pants suit and is the first to extend her hand to the surgeon, a man in his forties with a medium build.

“Doctor…Gibbs,” she quickly reads off his name embroidered into his scrubs above his left pec. “I’m Erica Meyer, Gerald’s family attorney,” she introduces herself, and motions toward me, ignoring Peggy, because we both know that if we don’t make a clear line in the sand, Peggy will strong-arm her way into a decision-making role. “This is his daughter, Cheryl Buchannan.”

“Miss Buchannan, Miss Meyer,” he answers, nodding at me as he shakes her hand.

“I’m Mrs. Buchannan,” Peggy cuts in.

“Peggy please,” Erica groans. “Doctor, please ensure the hospital administrators note that Peggy Reid-Buchannan is no longer married to Gerald, and thus, only his daughter here, Cheryl Buchannan, has power of attorney and full rights as next of kin.”

“We’ll be sure to get that sorted out soon,” Dr. Gibbs says nervously, taking a slow, slight step back, the way anyone would once they realize they’ve stepped too close to a hornet’s nest.

“What’s the status, Doctor?” Erica asks.

He clears his throat and looks at me, seeming to thoughtfully craft his update. “Miss Buchannan, your father has suffered a severe hemorrhagic stroke.”

“I don’t understand. How did this happen? My father’s in great shape. He told me a few weeks ago that he got a clean bill of health from our family doctor.”

“It can happen to anyone at any time, even people in great health. We’ve stabilized him, but I’m afraid the survival rate for this particular type of stroke is quite low.”

“How low?” Peggy demands. “What are his chances?”

Dr. Gibbs doesn’t respond, looking to me for the next question. I nod, conceding to his response to Peggy. “Miss Buchannan, your father won’t ever recover to the man he was before this event. There’s a ten, maybe fifteen percent chance that he’ll begin to breathe on his own again, but it’s not an exact science.”

“Is he conscious?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, Miss Buchannan. It’s very unlikely that your father will ever wake up. His condition is consistent with…with similar patients. Nonresponsive pupils, no gag reflex, breathing requires assistance using a life support system, no response to pain stimuli. We suggest waiting the night, but as it stands, these symptoms show his brain stem reflexes have diminished, severely.”

Peggy starts to sob loudly next to me. I want to tell her to shut up and remember that she’s his ex-wife. They got divorced for a reason, and turning on the theatrics won’t do me or Dad any good right now.

“Is there any chance at all that Gerald’s condition is the result of…foul play?” Erica asks with some hesitation.

I’m not surprised about the question. My father has always been a sharp businessman, fierce and astute bordering on manipulative and cutthroat. He makes no excuse for residing in the gray area when it comes to business ethics—or personal, for that matter. He’s bound to have made some enemies over the years.

Dr. Gibbs shakes his head. “That’s doubtful. There was no sign of physical trauma anywhere on him, and his toxicology screen is clear. No drugs, alcohol, or poisons in his system.”

I’m more interested in how quickly Dad will pull through from this. “Do you think he may improve overnight?” I ask.

“It’s difficult to tell. In all likelihood, he won’t,” he says softly. “Ma’am, at this point, our medical team recommends one night of observation. The next few hours are critical in helping us arrive at a more definitive prognosis. We’ll provide an update within eight to twelve hours. You should go home. Get some rest. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure. I’ll have the nurse get you after post-operative care is complete.” Dr. Gibbs presses his lips together and gives me a somber look. “Good night, Miss Buchannan. Miss Meyer. Speak with you in the morning.”

As he walks away, so does all my hope.

Dad’s close to the end. I didn’t have to read between the lines. Dr. Gibbs didn’t mince words. Ten percent chance of breathing on his own. Nonresponsive. Severe stroke.

Dad’s dying.

So why don’t I feel anything at all?

I’m on my way back to my seat beside Vanessa when Jace and his father walk into the waiting room.

Thank God.

Or maybe not. Jace hurries over to me, stopping short a few feet away, even though I need his strong arms around me right now.

Because we have a secret.

His father—my boss—still doesn’t know about us.