I hate having to lie to him.
He knows damn well nobody gets second chances in this business after a meltdown like that.
Maybe the Warwick name will salvage his career, carrying him to new prospects. But as far as I'm concerned, we probably won't hear a word from the royals, except when they're going to send us on our merry way with impersonal wishes for good health.
“Fuck.” Dad slumps back in his bed, pulling his hand from mine. The IV in his arm stretches as he rubs his eyes.
My heart sinks like a stone. He isn't really...crying...is he?
Oh, God.
“Dad, no,” I say gently, wondering if there's any combination of words to ease the dagger cutting through him. “Work doesn't matter. You have to get well. That's the only thing worth worrying about right now. Whatever else is on your mind, forget it. Don't let it take over. Turn it off. You're a smart man. You'll bounce back from this...all of it. You've got more experience and connections than anybody else in this business. The world won't end just because you need a little time off, I promise. Dad, I –“
“Erin...” he cuts in, a defeated expression turning his face gray. “Shut up.”
I do.
Hell, I don't know what else to do. I've never seen him like this.
His rudeness hurts, but I try not to let it get to me. Standing up, I walk toward the window, staring out into the early sunrise.
The hospital overlooks a ragged shore, where the wind sends foamy waves crashing against the rocks. My hands become fists at my sides, and the only thing that keeps running through my mind is that I have to forgive him.
He isn't in his right mind.
He's hurting.
We don't even know what's wrong.
I won't let myself cry – not even when I hear him gently snoring again after a couple minutes pass.
Holding in tears is worse than anger. They sting my eyes, my soul, make me question everything about why I'm standing in this foreign hospital after watching my father's career self-destruct, waiting to find out how much longer we need to stay here before we jet back to the States, completely humiliated.
There's a TV in the corner. It's been muted since the moment I stepped in, and now the early morning programs are starting. I see two prim reporters at their desks, smiling, going through the latest news on the continent.
Another bailout coming in the Eurozone. Something about nuclear security in Belgium, and then a thirty second segment on military drills near the Russian border.
Then another headline. The one that twists the knot in my belly and the rock in my throat at once without mercy.
BOMBSHELL INTERVIEW! PRINCE GOES FROM HOT WATER TO HERO!
Turning nervously to make sure dad's still asleep, I look up at the screen, that anger in my eyes beginning to pour out in hot, salty streams down my cheeks.
I see it all again.
The painful look on dad's face before he rolled out of his chair, collapsing in front of the Prince.
The swarm of security and paramedics. Panic. Commotion.
A flash of myself jumping onto the stage, my hair a mess, lunging to save myself from toppling off the ledge. I'm less than a foot from planting the ground face first when Prince Silas grabs me, jerks me up, straight into his arms.
Jesus, it looks even more picture perfect seeing it in the third person, like something from a movie. They didn't bother capturing anything after that, the long, awkward stare between us, how I gazed into his deep blue eyes.
The footage cuts off. I storm over to the TV, lean up on my tippy toes, careful not to let these overly tight heels screw me over again. I punch the off button, without bothering to give the other dramas and kids shows from Saint Moore and Europe a chance to take the edge off.
I'm pissed. Hurt. Worried.
Scared.
There's another chair in the corner, and that's where I park my unsettled ass for what seems like the next hour. I wish to God I hadn't flipped on that stupid program.
I should be thinking about dad, brushing off his outburst.
Instead, I'm thinking about the Prince. The first and last time I'll ever be close to him. The way he held me – firm, but gentle. Almost like a decent man should.
Sure, the media was eating up the drama, recasting it as a heroic spectacle.
I wasn't fooled. Even utter bastards can be gentleman in the right time, right place.
Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if Silas drove off the second we were gone, straight to his little mistresses. Maybe that flashy club for royalty and multimillionaires he owns, the one I've read about on the trashy blogs, hosting parties for the most eligible supermodels in Europe.
His own private hunting grounds for sex.
My hand reaches for my phone. I'm about to pull it up, and read more gossip about Prince Not-So-Charming for reasons I don't even understand, when the door pops open. The noise wakes dad, and he groans, sitting up in bed while the visitor enters.
A tall man in a white coat with salt and pepper hair steps in. “Ah, you must be Miss Warwick, I presume. So glad you're here so I can update you both on the news. I'm Doctor Jameson.”
The physician rounds the bed, standing next to dad, and begins pulling something from a manila folder. I'm studying his face. It isn't hard to notice the complete lack of any pleasantries or warmth.
He's serious business. And serious is never good when it comes to medicine.
“Mister Warwick, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to come out with it. We've found a shadow near your pancreas in scans.”
My ears start ringing, and his voice fades out. A shadow? A shadow?! What the hell does that mean?
“Shadow?” My dad repeats, just as confused as me.
The doctor holds up three x-rays on a sheet, and begins going through them, pointing at the areas in question.
“Yes, an unusual growth, of sorts. Not benign. We'll know for certain once your labs come back. Regardless, it's something we'll need to deal with shortly.” The doctor pauses, straightens his spectacles, before he goes on. “Regrettably, it's near a nerve cluster that's likely to cause intense nausea and a shock to the system that stresses the heart. That's why you had the attack yesterday. The good news is, it's fully operable. I'm recommending surgery soon, once you decide whether you'd like to have it done here in Saint Moore, or back home.”
“Home,” dad says, without a second's hesitation. “Don't want to spend a second longer on this damned island than I really need to.”
Doctor Jameson's face tightens. Dad gives him a sour look and mutters an apology.
“It's okay. He's been under a lot of stress,” I say weakly, looking at the physician.
“Yes, yes, I understand. Well, the two of you ought to talk things over and try your very best to remain calm. We'll have more news for you this evening. Assuming this isn't anything to really be concerned about beyond the surgery, we can have it done in under a week, wherever you choose. The Warwick Report can be back on the air in no time at all.”
“No, I'm taking time off,” dad snaps, his eyes going dark. “Whatever the outlook here.”
I want to reach out, squeeze his shoulder, but I know him too well. He's always been so high strung, the sort of man who has zero tolerance for failure.
“And if there's more to worry about?” I ask, fighting to ignore the sickly feeling building deep in my stomach.