Chapter 6 Truth Revealed
The Winslow family penthouse felt like a museum after midnight—all cold marble and priceless art frozen in time. I stood in my father's study, running my fingers along the spines of his leather-bound medical journals. The imprint of his presence lingered in the faint scent of pipe tobacco clinging to the curtains, though he hadn't smoked in years.
A knock startled me.
Daniel wouldn't come this late. The board knew better than to disturb me. Which left—
"Door's open."
Dylan entered with two steaming mugs, his footsteps silent against the Persian rug. He wore scrubs again, his hair slightly damp as if he'd come straight from the hospital. Without a word, he set one mug on the desk—the rich, spiced chai my father always drank.
I didn't touch it. "How'd you get past security?"
"Told them I was your therapist." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Technically true."
The joke fell flat between us.
He exhaled and sat in the armchair across from me—not the casual sprawl of a guest, but the erect posture of someone braced for impact. "We need to talk."
"Not tonight." My voice sounded brittle even to my own ears.
"It can't wait." He reached into his scrubs pocket and produced a slim USB drive. "Your father left more than one recording."
The walls seemed to close in around me. "What else is there?"
Dylan inserted the drive into my laptop. "See for yourself."
The screen flickered to life.
My father appeared again, but this time in a clinical setting—St. Vincent's memory care unit, judging by the pale blue walls behind him. His clothes hung looser, his hands more unsteady than in the previous video. The timestamp read just two weeks ago.
"I'm tired, Dylan." His voice rasped like rusted metal. "The treatments aren't working anymore."
The camera shifted slightly, revealing Dylan's shoulder in frame as he adjusted the recording angle. "We can try adjusting the dosage—"
"No." My father waved him off. "Enire medicine. Enough tests." His words slurred at the edges, the syntax collapsing. "Is Harper ready?"
Dylan's voice softened. "She's always been ready."
My chest ached.
On screen, my father fumbled with something in his lap—an old photo I recognized instantly. Me at eight, perched on his shoulders outside Winslow Medical's original lab, both of us grinning like fools.
"Show her this," he said gruffly. "Tell her... tell her the building is just stone. The real legacy is here." He tapped the photo with a trembling finger. "The way we loved."
The video cut abruptly.
I clenched my fists to stop their shaking. "Why didn't you tell me he'd declined this much?"
Dylan's eyes never left mine. "Because he asked me not to."
"He's my father."
"And he wanted to protect you." Dylan leaned forward. "Harper, the man in that video—that's not who hired me eighteen months ago. Back then, he was sharp as ever. He suspected Richard was manipulating his medications, so he brought me in under the guise of treating his Alzheimer's."
I pushed to my feet, needing to move. "You still should've told me."
"When?" Dylan stood too, his voice rising. "When you were fighting the board? When Richard was sabotaging your every move? Or maybe during the outbreak, when you hadn't slept in three days?"
The truth struck like a slap—he'd been protecting me in the only way he could. Just like my father asked.
My knees buckled.
Dylan caught me before I hit the floor, his arms wrapping around me with surprising strength. For one fractured moment, I let myself lean into him, my forehead pressing against his collarbone. His heartbeat thundered beneath my cheek, rapid but steady.
Then I pulled away.
Dylan let go instantly. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" I wiped angrily at my face. "Following instructions? Doing your job?"
"For not telling you sooner." His gaze burned into me. "But not for loving you."
The words hung between us, stark and undeniable.
I froze. "What?"
Dylan exhaled sharply. "The contract, the hospital, all of it—it started as a job. But somewhere between you threatening to fire me and nearly passing out from exhaustion..." He shook his head. "I fell for you, Harper. Against every professional instinct I had."
The room spun.
He stepped back, giving me space. "I don't expect you to forgive me. But you deserved to know."
I stared at him—the man who'd seen my father through his darkest days, who'd fought Richard when I couldn't, who'd stood by me not for money or prestige but because—
Because he chose to.
The realization hit like dawn breaking: I didn't need to forgive Dylan.
I needed to thank him.
But before I could speak, my phone buzzed with a hospital alert. My father's vitals had spiked dangerously.
Dylan was already moving, grabbing his coat. "Come on."
I followed without hesitation.
Because whatever came next—whether my father woke up, whether Dylan and I found our way back to each other—some truths didn't need words.
They just were.
