Chapter 3 - My Father’s Last Hour
The black sedan moved through the storm while Los Angeles blurred outside the windows.
I sat in the back seat gripping my phone.
Jonathan drove.
No one spoke for several minutes.
I kept seeing Edwin’s face when he learned the company belonged to me.
Shock.
Then hatred.
Not heartbreak.
He had not looked at me like a husband losing his wife.
He looked at me like a thief losing stolen property.
“How long did Dad know?” I asked.
Jonathan glanced at me through the mirror.
“About Edwin?”
“Yes.”
“Before the wedding.”
My chest tightened.
“Then why didn’t he stop me?”
“He tried.”
“He argued with Edwin at the rehearsal dinner. That isn’t stopping me.”
“He showed you financial records.”
“Edwin said they were fabricated.”
“He asked you to postpone the ceremony.”
“I thought he was controlling me.”
Jonathan’s voice softened.
“Your father knew forcing you would push you closer to Edwin.”
“So he let me marry him.”
“He gave you a way out.”
The private number.
I looked down at my phone.
“Who answered?”
“Robert Stanford.”
I stared at him.
“He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where has he been for ten years?”
“Hidden.”
“Why?”
Jonathan tightened his hands on the wheel.
“Because someone tried to kill him.”
“Edwin?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Then who?”
“Robert will explain when it is safe.”
I turned toward the window.
Nothing was safe anymore.
Not my marriage.
Not my husband’s dead father.
Not my own father’s final hours.
The hospital entrance appeared ahead.
Jonathan pulled beneath the emergency awning.
A nurse met us at the elevator.
“Ms. Stanford?”
“Yes.”
“Your father has been asking for you.”
I followed her to the private hospice floor.
The hallway smelled of antiseptic and lavender.
My father lay beneath a white blanket, smaller than I remembered.
Oxygen tubes framed his face.
His eyes opened when I entered.
“Claire.”
I crossed the room.
“I’m here.”
He squeezed my hand weakly.
“You stood up.”
The words broke me.
“How did you know?”
“Jonathan called.”
“I should have listened to you.”
“No.”
His voice was barely a whisper.
“You had to see Edwin clearly with your own eyes.”
Tears ran down my face.
“You could have told me everything.”
“I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
His gaze moved to my stomach.
I was not pregnant.
Edwin had forced me to wear dresses that made me appear pregnant at public events.
He said investors trusted family men.
He planned to announce an heir before one existed.
Dad knew that too.
“He was preparing to declare you unstable,” he said.
I went cold.
“What?”
“Edwin needed control of your trust. Marriage wasn’t enough.”
Jonathan closed the door.
My father continued.
“He paid a doctor to create false pregnancy records and psychiatric evaluations.”
My hands trembled.
“He wanted to say I imagined losing a baby?”
“Yes.”
I remembered the vitamins Edwin insisted I take.
The private physician who examined me without explaining the tests.
The sealed medical file I was never allowed to read.
“Why?”
“The Stanford Legacy Trust activates fully when an heir is born.”
“But I’m not pregnant.”
“He planned to produce one.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Dad closed his eyes for a moment.
Jonathan stepped closer.
“Edwin stored embryos using genetic material taken from you during a medical procedure two years ago.”
My stomach turned.
I remembered minor surgery after severe abdominal pain.
Edwin arranged everything.
The clinic had closed six months later.
“They took my eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Without consent?”
“Yes.”
My father squeezed my fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are they?”
“We don’t know.”
The room tilted.
Edwin had not only controlled my money.
He had stolen the possibility of my children.
My father reached beneath the blanket and withdrew a small brass key attached to a red cord.
“Take this.”
“What does it open?”
“Robert’s vault.”
“Why would Robert trust me?”
“Because he knows what his son became.”
Dad’s breathing changed.
The monitor began beeping faster.
I pressed the call button.
“Dad.”
He held my wrist with surprising strength.
“Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“Beverly did not marry into the Stanford family.”
I frowned.
“She was Robert’s second wife.”
“No.”
His eyes sharpened.
“She was his nurse.”
The words made no sense.
“She falsified his death records.”
Jonathan went still.
My father continued.
“And Edwin helped her.”
The monitor alarm sounded.
Nurses rushed into the room.
I was pushed backward.
Dad’s hand slipped from mine.
“Claire,” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Trust the dog.”
Then the medical team surrounded him.
I stood near the wall while they worked.
One minute later, the doctor turned off the monitor.
My father was gone.
I did not scream.
I held the brass key so tightly it cut into my palm.
Jonathan placed a hand on my shoulder.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message had arrived from the Bel Air mansion security system.
Brutus was barking inside the locked wine cellar.
The motion camera showed him clawing at a hidden door.
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Behind that door, a man was pounding from the other side.
📖 Claire lost her father moments after learning Edwin stole her genetic material, but the prisoner behind Brutus’s hidden door could prove Beverly faked Robert Stanford’s death. 👇
