The family jet touched down at a private airstrip outside Boston just after sunset. A sleek black car waited on the tarmac, Thomas standing beside it with the same impassive expression he'd worn since I was a child. Only the slight widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise at my appearance.

"Miss Isabella," he said, opening the car door. "Welcome home."


"Thank you, Thomas." I slid into the familiar leather interior. "How is he?"

"Stable for now. The doctors have scheduled surgery for tomorrow morning."

I nodded, watching the familiar landscape pass by as we drove toward the Sinclair-Hamilton estate. The sprawling grounds emerged from the twilight—manicured gardens, the tennis courts where Michael and I had played as children, the small lake where I'd learned to swim. It had been three years since I'd seen any of it.


The mansion itself stood illuminated against the darkening sky, windows glowing like beacons. As the car pulled up to the entrance, the massive oak doors opened, and Michael appeared.

"Izzy," he said, pulling me into a tight embrace. "Thank God you're here."


"How is he really?" I asked as we walked through the marble foyer.

"Putting on a brave face, but the doctors are concerned. His heart is weaker than they initially thought." Michael studied me. "You look terrible. What happened?"

"Long story. I'll tell you later." I wasn't ready to discuss my failed marriage or lost pregnancy. "Where is he?"

"In the library. He insisted on waiting up for you."

I paused at the library doors, taking a deep breath before pushing them open. The room was dimly lit, a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace. And there, in his favorite leather chair, sat my father—thinner and grayer than I remembered, but still radiating the quiet authority that had built the Hamilton Group into an empire.

"Isabella," he said, his voice softer than I remembered. "My girl has come home."

I crossed the room and knelt beside his chair, taking his hand in mine. "I'm here, Dad."

"Let me look at you." He studied my face, his eyes still sharp despite his illness. "Something's happened. You're hurt."

I'd forgotten how he could always read me. "It's nothing that won't heal."

"Hmm." He didn't believe me, but he didn't press. "I'm sorry it took this to bring you back."

"I'm sorry I stayed away so long."

He squeezed my hand. "You needed to find your own way. I understood that. But now—" A coughing fit interrupted him.

"Dad, you should rest. We can talk tomorrow after you've slept."

"Tomorrow I might be unconscious on an operating table," he said bluntly. "The doctors aren't optimistic about my chances without this surgery."

Fear gripped me. "Then we'll get the best surgeon in the country."

"Already done. Dr. Reed from Massachusetts General. Apparently, he's something of a miracle worker with difficult cases."

I froze. "Dr. Reed? Ethan Reed?"

"You know him?" Michael asked, surprised.

"We've... met." I struggled to keep my voice neutral. "He has a good reputation."

"More than good," my father said. "The man's brilliant, if a bit lacking in bedside manner. He's meeting us at the hospital at eight tomorrow for final consultations before the surgery."

---

The hospital's VIP wing was a far cry from the emergency room where I'd spent the previous night. Private rooms, hushed voices, discreet security. Money couldn't buy health, but it could certainly buy comfort while you waited.

I sat beside my father's bed as nurses prepared him for surgery, Michael pacing by the window. When the door opened, Ethan Reed walked in, white coat over surgical scrubs, chart in hand.

He stopped short when he saw me, surprise flashing across his face before his professional mask slipped back into place.

"Mr. Sinclair-Hamilton," he addressed my father, though his eyes lingered on me. "I'm Dr. Reed. We'll be heading to surgery in about thirty minutes."

"Doctor," my father nodded. "This is my son, Michael, and my daughter, Isabella."

"Ms. Sinclair-Hamilton and I have met," Ethan said neutrally.

My father raised an eyebrow. "Have you now?"

"A brief encounter," I said quickly. "Dr. Reed was kind enough to assist me during a... medical situation."

Ethan's eyes met mine, a silent question in them. I gave an imperceptible shake of my head.

"Well then," my father said, "I'm in even better hands than I thought."

Ethan turned his attention fully to my father, explaining the procedure in clear, direct terms. No sugar-coating, no false reassurances, just facts delivered with quiet confidence.

"Any questions?" he asked when he'd finished.

"Just one," my father said. "Give it to me straight, Doctor. What are my chances?"

"The procedure carries significant risks," Ethan replied. "Your heart is weaker than I'd like, and the blockages are severe. But without the surgery, your prognosis is poor. With it, you have a fighting chance."

My father nodded, appreciating the honesty. "Then let's not waste time."

As the nurses came to wheel him to the operating room, my father gripped my hand. "Whatever happens, Isabella, remember who you are. A Sinclair-Hamilton doesn't run from challenges."

I blinked back tears. "I'll remember."

After they took him away, I found myself alone in the hallway with Ethan. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Isabella Sinclair-Hamilton," he finally said, testing the name. "Not Isabella Matthews."

"No," I admitted. "That was... a temporary identity."

"Temporary." His tone was unreadable. "Like your marriage?"

I flinched. "That's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That was unprofessional."

"My father—"

"Will get my absolute best care," he assured me. "Whatever is between us doesn't affect that."

"Is there something between us?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Ethan's expression softened slightly. "I need to go scrub in. We can talk after the surgery." He hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your loss. Both of them."

As he walked away, I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. In the span of forty-eight hours, my entire life had been upended. And now the man who'd witnessed my lowest moment was about to hold my father's life in his hands.