Chapter 4 Identity Exposed

The coffee in my hand had gone cold.

I stared at the headline blinking across my tablet screen, the words cutting through the haze of my early-morning exhaustion like a scalpel.

EXCLUSIVE: WINSLOW HEIR'S MYSTERY DOCTOR HAS SECRET PSYCHIATRY PRACTICE

A tabloid photo showed Dylan and me leaving the gala, my hand resting on his arm. Below it, another image—Dylan in a white coat, standing outside an office building I didn't recognize, the nameplate beside the door clearly visible: Dr. Dylan Prescott, MD, Psychiatry & Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

Daniel's voice crackled through my phone. "Ms. Winslow, we need to issue a statement—"

I hung up.

Dylan was supposed to be at Mercy General today. Instead, I found him in my penthouse kitchen, reading the same article on his phone with an unsettling calm.

He looked up when I entered. His expression gave nothing away.

"How long?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears.

He set the phone down. "Five years."

"Five *years*?" The ceramic mug shattered when I threw it against the wall. "You lied to me."

"I didn't." He remained seated, watching me with that infuriating professional detachment. "I never said I was only an ER physician."

"But you let me believe it." I stepped closer, my heels crunching over broken porcelain. "Why?"

"Because it wasn't relevant to our arrangement."

"Don't give me that therapist bullshit." My nails bit into my palms. "What else are you hiding? Who's Eleanor Voss?"

He stilled.

The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire. Then—

"Dr. Voss oversees the memory care unit at St. Vincent's." His voice was carefully measured. "I consult there twice weekly."

Memory care.

The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity.

"My father."

Dylan didn't deny it.

The room tilted. I gripped the counter's edge. "How long?"

"Eighteen months."

A cold laugh escaped me. "Let me guess—he hired you to spy on me. Assess whether his precious heir was stable enough to take over."

Dylan's jaw tightened. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" I advanced on him. "Did you file reports? Take notes on all my little neuroses?"

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble. "Your father has early-onset Alzheimer's, Harper. He wanted to ensure you were prepared—"

"Don't." My voice cracked. "Don't you dare use his illness to justify this."

I expected him to argue. To defend himself with more of those calm, clinical explanations.

Instead, he reached into his briefcase and produced a manila folder. "Read this."

I didn't take it. "Get out."

"Harper—"

"*Get out!*"

The folder landed on the counter between us. Dylan studied me for a long moment—not as a doctor assessing a patient, not as a contractor fulfilling an obligation, but as someone who understood exactly how deep this betrayal cut.

Then he walked out.

The front door clicked shut.

I stared at the folder for ten full minutes before opening it.

Inside were dozens of clinical notes—but not about me.

Patient: Charles Winslow
Diagnosis: Early-stage Alzheimer's, rapid progression
Treatment Plan: Cognitive therapy, medication regimen...

Page after page of meticulous observations. Bloodwork results. Medication adjustments. And in the margins—handwritten notes that didn't belong in any official record.

*Patient spoke of daughter today—worried she's taking on too much. Suggested gradual transition plan.*

*Memory lapses increasing. Concerned about board meeting next week. Will prep contingency.*

The final page stopped me cold.

A photocopy of my father's shaky signature authorizing Dylan's contract with me—dated three weeks *before* I'd approached him in the ER.

This wasn't a coincidence.

It was a setup.

___

Daniel arrived within the hour, crisis management team in tow.

"We can spin this," he assured me, pacing my office. "Say Dr. Prescott was consulting on hospital psychiatric services—"

I wasn't listening.

The medical folder lay open on my desk, one particular note glaring up at me:

Patient expressed wish to step down before symptoms worsen. Daughter unaware of full extent. Dr. Prescott to assess readiness.

"Ms. Winslow?"

I closed the folder. "Terminate the contract."

Daniel blinked. "But the PR fallout—"

"I don't care." My voice was steel. "Draft the paperwork. Effective immediately."

I spent the afternoon fielding calls from the board, my father's bewildered assistant, and no less than six reporters. By evening, my penthouse felt like a gilded cage.

The knock came at 7 PM.

Dylan stood in the hallway looking like he hadn't slept in days. "We need to talk."

I moved to slam the door.

His hand shot out to stop it. "Five minutes."

"Why? So you can analyze me some more?"

"So you can understand." His knuckles whitened against the doorframe. "Please."

I stepped back.

He didn't enter, just pulled an envelope from his coat. "Your father's most recent scans."

I didn't take it. "I have his doctors for that."

"His doctors work for the board." Dylan held my gaze. "These are unfiltered."

The MRI images inside showed what I already knew—the telltale plaques, the shrinking hippocampus. But the dates...

"These are from last week." My throat tightened. "He told me he was stable."

Dylan exhaled slowly. "He didn't want you making decisions out of pity."

The weight of it crashed over me—not just the deception, but the loneliness of my father's choice. To fade in private. To push me away rather than show weakness.

Just like I was doing now.

I handed the scans back. "You should go."

Dylan hesitated. "The contract—"

"Is over." I met his eyes. "But the hospital funding stays. That was never conditional."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Regret.

Then he simply nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait."

He paused.

I swallowed around the ache in my chest. "Is any of it real?"

The question hung between us—about the outbreak. The near-kiss. The way his hand had felt around mine.

Dylan looked at me with unbearable honesty. "You know the answer to that."

Then he was gone.

___

The tabloids had a field day.

WINSLOW HEIR DUMPS SECRET SHRINK BOYFRIEND

DOC DUMPED: WAS IT ALL A THERAPY SESSION?

I ignored them all, burying myself in work. The board meetings. The quarterly reports. Anything to avoid thinking about that damned folder still sitting on my desk.

It took three days for the next bombshell to drop.

Daniel burst into my office without knocking. "You need to see this."

The business section headline turned my blood to ice:

WINSLOW MEDICAL IN PLAY? WHISTLEBLOWER CLAIMS DATA BREACH

The article detailed leaked internal documents—patient records, drug trial data, financials. All supposedly hacked from our servers.

And the anonymous source? A "high-ranking medical consultant" with "intimate knowledge of Winslow operations."

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

Check your secure drive. Now.

The attached file was a security timestamp—showing Dylan's credentials accessing restricted systems the night before the breach.

My vision tunneled.

Then the phone rang.

Dylan's voice was urgent. "Harper, listen—"

I hung up.

And for the first time in years, I drove to my father's empty penthouse, because the man who'd built Winslow Medical was the only person who might understand what came next.

But when I arrived, I found his wall safe open.

And missing one thing:

The backup drive containing his emergency succession plans.