Chapter 7 Inheriting True Love
The Winslow Medical press room smelled of bitter coffee and anticipation. Camera lenses protruded like curious insects between the sea of reporters, their flashes reflecting off my father's mahogany desk where I now sat. I adjusted the microphone, the weight of my new role settling heavily on my shoulders.
Daniel leaned in, his whisper urgent. "Just the prepared statement. Don't engage with personal questions."
I smoothed the crisp document before me – my father's official resignation, signed in his shaky script three days before the stroke took him. The ink blurred momentarily before I blinked it back into focus.
A hush fell as I began.
"Effective today, I assume the role of CEO at Winslow Medical." My voice held steady despite the tremor in my hands. "My father built this company on three principles – innovation, integrity, and above all..." I paused, my throat tightening. "Above all, compassion for those we serve."
The reporters stirred. One bold journalist called out, "Ms. Winslow, will Dr. Prescott continue treating your father's condition?"
Daniel shot me a warning glance.
I set the resignation letter aside and stood. "My father passed peacefully last Tuesday evening." The collective gasp rippled through the room like wind through wheat. "Dr. Prescott was with him until the end, just as he's been there from the beginning – not just as his physician, but as his friend."
Another reporter shouted, "What about the status of your relationship?"
I reached into my briefcase and withdrew the original contract, now cleanly torn in half. The sound of tearing paper echoed through the silent room.
"Our relationship began as a business arrangement." I let the halves flutter onto the desk. "But what grew between us – through hospital outbreaks and boardroom coups, through caring for my father and..." My voice broke. "Through saying goodbye – that was never part of the deal."
Flashbulbs exploded. Daniel groaned audibly.
A quiet voice from the back asked, "So where does that leave you two now?"
I looked toward the exit where Dylan stood in wrinkled scrubs, his hair disheveled from what I knew was another sleepless night at the hospital. There were new lines around his eyes, deeper than when we'd first met in that chaotic ER.
Our gazes locked as I answered.
"Some agreements don't need ink to be binding. They just need two people willing to show up, day after day, even when the contract expires."
The room erupted in shouted questions, but I was already moving - past Daniel's outstretched hand, through the clamoring reporters, toward Dylan who waited with that quiet patience I'd come to recognize as love.
___
One Year Later
The ribbon stretched taut across the entrance of the Winslow-Prescott Neurological Institute. Dylan fumbled dramatically with the oversized scissors, earning laughter from the assembled staff and patients.
"Remember," he stage-whispered to me, "I'm a doctor, not a ribbon-cutting expert."
I rolled my eyes and placed my hands over his, our joined grip making quick work of the ceremonial task. The crowd cheered as the ribbon fell away, revealing the gleaming new facility that would provide cutting-edge Alzheimer's research and free memory care – the union of Winslow resources and Dylan's clinical vision.
A young reporter pushed forward. "Dr. Prescott! How does it feel turning Harper Winslow's corporate empire into a philanthropic venture?"
Dylan's arm slid around my waist, his thumb brushing the place where my blouse met skin. "Funny, I remember her turning me into a romantic."
I elbowed him lightly. "Lies. You were always sentimental."
His quiet chuckle vibrated against my shoulder as we turned toward the doors, toward the future we'd built from broken contracts and healed hearts.
___
Our wedding took place at dawn in the hospital courtyard where we'd first argued over terms. The morning light filtered through the oak trees we'd saved during renovations, dappling the small gathering of nurses, my father's surviving research team, and the one board member who'd believed in me from the start.
Dylan's hands trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto my finger. "I promise to love you in sickness and health, in boardrooms and emergency rooms..." His voice caught. "For all the days I'm given."
Later, in the penthouse we now shared, Dylan produced a small box from his suit pocket.
"Wedding present."
Inside lay our original contract, meticulously restored, but with every clinical clause crossed out and rewritten in his messy scrawl:
"Section 4.1: All public displays of affection now mandatory."
"Section 7.3: No more secrets (except birthday presents)."
Tears blurred my vision as I pulled an identical box from my nightstand – his copy of the contract bearing my own amendments:
"Term: Permanently renewable."
"Conditions: Love only."
Dylan's laugh was warm against my lips as he pulled me close, the contracts – like the best commitments – fulfilled far beyond their original scope. Outside our window, the first light of morning glinted off the hospital where our story began, where my father's legacy lived on, and where our shared future stretched bright and endless before us.
