Chapter 5 Crisis and Choices

The emergency board meeting convened in absolute silence.

Nine men and women in thousand-dollar suits stared at me across the gleaming conference table, the air thick with the scent of expensive coffee and thinly veiled hostility. The leaked documents were printed and stacked neatly before each seat—patient records, drug formulas, financial projections. Corporate treason in twelve-point font.

Daniel slid into the chair beside me, his whisper urgent. "We need to get ahead of this before—"

The doors burst open.

Richard Winslow strolled in with the casual arrogance only a man who'd just staged a coup could manage. My uncle's silver hair was impeccably styled, his navy suit tailored to perfection. The shark-like smile he reserved for shareholders was firmly in place.

"Apologies for my tardiness," he said, not sounding sorry at all. He took his seat at the head of the table—my father's seat—without hesitation. "Shall we address the elephant in the room?"

I didn't flinch. "By all means, Richard. You brought it in here."

His chuckle was ice. "Now, Harper, let's not be dramatic. This breach is unfortunate, but hardly unexpected given recent... lapses in leadership."

The board members shifted uncomfortably.

I kept my voice level. "What exactly are you implying?"

Richard tapped the documents before him. "These files were accessed using your psychiatrist boyfriend's credentials—a man you personally brought into our systems. A man with known access to your father." He leaned forward. "Tell me, how much does Dr. Prescott know about our Alzheimer's drug trials?"

My fingers tightened around my pen.

Because that was the real threat—not the patient records, not the financials. The crown jewel of Winslow Medical was our experimental neural regeneration treatment. The one that could slow cognitive decline by nearly 40%. The one worth billions.

And Richard knew it.

I met his gaze. "Dylan had nothing to do with this leak."

"Then how do you explain this?" He slid a tablet across the table.

Security footage showed Dylan at a hospital workstation late at night—the timestamp mere hours before the breach. My stomach clenched.

Richard pressed on. "Given the conflict of interest—"

"There is no conflict," I cut in. "Our relationship was strictly professional."

A few eyebrows rose.

Richard's smile widened. "Of course. Just like his 'professional' sessions with your deteriorating father?"

The room went dead silent.

I stood slowly, palms flat on the table. "Careful, Richard. Defamation lawsuits are expensive."

Before he could respond, the conference phone rang.

Daniel answered, then stiffened. "Ms. Winslow—it's the SEC."

Richard's smirk faltered.

I took the receiver. "Harper Winslow speaking."

A clipped female voice replied, "This is Agent Vasquez. We've received evidence suggesting insider trading related to your data breach. Is Mr. Richard Winslow present?"

Every head swiveled toward my uncle.

I smiled. "He is."

Richard shot to his feet. "This is absurd—"

The doors opened again.

Dylan walked in.

He wore a charcoal suit instead of scrubs, his jaw set with purpose. In his hand was a sealed manila envelope—the kind used for legal documents. The collective intake of breath from the board was almost comical.

Richard recovered first. "Security! Remove this man immediately—"

"No need." Dylan set the envelope on the table. "I'll be brief."

His gaze met mine—an unspoken question. After a beat, I nodded.

Dylan addressed the room. "Three things. First—" He tapped the envelope. "This contains signed affidavits from St. Vincent's IT staff confirming my credentials were stolen weeks ago. The timestamped footage you saw? A setup."

Richard scoffed. "Convenient."

"Second." Dylan pulled a flash drive from his pocket. "Full digital forensics tracing the leaked documents to a private server registered under—" He turned to Richard. "Your mistress's maiden name."

A board member gasped.

Richard's face darkened. "You have no proof—"

"Third." Dylan's voice dropped. "Charles Winslow's missing succession drive."

My breath caught.

Dylan continued, "It wasn't stolen. It was safeguarded—per his instructions—when certain parties began questioning his competency." His gaze never left Richard. "Curiously, it contains notes about your recent stock divestments. Right before our drug trial results were due."

The room erupted.

Richard slammed his hands on the table. "This is slander!"

"Is it?" I reached into my briefcase and produced the folder Dylan had given me—my father's medical records. "Because these show you've been intercepting Dad's test results for months. Pushing certain medications. Encouraging his paranoia." My voice turned lethal. "Tell me, Uncle—were you treating him? Or grooming him?"

Richard's composure cracked. "You ungrateful little—"

Dylan stepped between us.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then the board members began murmuring, reaching for phones, demanding emergency protocols.

Amid the chaos, Dylan pressed the flash drive into my hand. "Play the last file."

Then he walked out.

___

The video file was timestamped six weeks prior—before the contract, before the outbreak, before everything.

My father sat in his study, the camera angle awkward as if placed on a side table. His hands trembled slightly, but his voice was clear.

"If you're seeing this, Harper, then Richard has made his move." He adjusted his glasses. "I've asked Dr. Prescott to watch for irregularities—in the company, in my health records, in you." A faint smile. "Yes, I had you assessed. You'd have done the same."

The screen blurred as my vision swam.

Dad leaned forward. "I trust Dylan. You can too. But more importantly—" His voice broke. "Trust yourself. The board will fight you. Richard will try to break you. Don't let them."

A cough racked his frame. When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner. I just... I wanted to be your father a little longer. Not a burden."

The video ended abruptly.

I sat alone in my office, tears streaking unchecked down my face.

___

By midnight, Richard had resigned "for personal reasons." The SEC investigation would continue, but the smoking gun—the succession drive—was safe in my vault.

I found Dylan on the hospital rooftop where we'd first argued about the contract months ago. The city lights stretched endlessly below us, the wind carrying the faint scent of rain.

He didn't turn when I approached. "Board satisfied?"

"For now." I joined him at the railing. "You could've told me about the setup."

"You would've stopped me."

He wasn't wrong.

I studied his profile—the stubborn set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. "Why did you do it?"

Dylan exhaled slowly. "Your father gave me a choice—monitor his decline or protect his legacy." A pause. "There was never a question."

The pieces fell into place—his late-night disappearances, the psych credentials, his willingness to sign the ridiculous contract. All of it leading here.

"You risked your career," I said quietly.

He finally turned to me. "Some things are worth the risk."

The words hung between us, heavier than the skyline.

I broke first. "I saw the video."

Dylan nodded.

"He knew." My voice cracked. "About Richard. About everything."

"Not at first." Dylan leaned against the railing. "But the medications... they made his paranoia worse. Richard exploited that."

A cold wind sliced between us. I shivered.

Before I could react, Dylan shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The residual warmth from his body seeped into my skin, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping me.

I should have given it back.

Instead, I pulled it tighter. "The contract's over."

"I know."

"You don't have to stay."

Dylan studied me for a long moment. Then, quietly: "I know that too."

The unspoken question lingered in the space between our hands, so close yet not touching.

Did I want him to stay?

Did he want to?

Below us, the city hummed with indifferent life. Somewhere out there, Richard was scrambling, the board was regrouping, and my father was forgetting.

But up here—

Up here there was only this moment. This choice.

I turned toward the exit.

Dylan didn't follow.

Not yet.