I was stunned by my father's behavior earlier.
He had never been this rigid with me. Never this dismissive. I knew him—his pride, his stubbornness, his obsession with legacy—but I also knew his love for me. I was sure I could convince him. I was sure that once things calmed down, once he listened, he would understand.
Because I was not giving up on Alice.
She isn't just someone I love. She is my life now. The peace I never knew I was searching for. When I saw the panic in her eyes after my father's words, something inside me hardened. I took her away from that space, made her comfortable, reassured her again and again until exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep.
She is sleeping in my room now.
Safe.
And that is all that matters to me at this moment.
But reality doesn't wait.
I knew I had to face my father. I couldn't delay this conversation any longer. Marriage isn't a negotiation for me—it's a decision I've already made. I won't take any other woman as my wife. That truth is non-negotiable.
With that resolve, I walked toward my parents' room.
And everything changed.
The moment I stepped inside, my heart dropped so violently that it felt like the ground vanished beneath my feet.
My father was coughing.
Blood.
Bright red against white sheets.
My mother was panicked, trembling, trying to hold him while calling his name again and again. A doctor stood beside the bed, his expression grave, far too calm for the chaos unfolding in front of me.
For a second, my mind refused to process what I was seeing.
This couldn't be happening.
"Dad?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The doctor turned to me and spoke words I will never forget.
"His condition is deteriorating rapidly."
The room spun.
I wasn't ready for this. No one prepares you for the moment when the person you thought was invincible suddenly looks fragile. Mortal. I moved closer, and my mother broke down completely, clutching me like she was afraid I would disappear too.
She cried into my chest, and I felt something tear open inside me.
I have never seen her like this.
Strong all her life. Composed. Controlled.
Now she was shaking.
I hugged her tightly, my own tears falling freely. Seeing her like this hurt more than anything. My father, the pillar of our family, struggling for breath. My mother, breaking in front of me.
I turned to the doctor, desperation consuming me.
"Do something," I said, my voice cracking. "Anything. Save him. I'll arrange whatever you need. Money, treatment—anything."
The doctor looked at me with pity.
That look shattered me.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. "We are doing everything medically possible. But he doesn't have much time. The best thing you can do now is keep him happy. Avoid stress. Let him rest."
"No," I snapped, grabbing the doctor by his collar. "You don't get to say that. You have to save him."
Security intervened. My mother cried harder, begging me to stop. The doctor removed my hands calmly—not angry, not scared. Just sad.
Because he knew.
And deep down, so did I.
There are moments when power means nothing.
Money means nothing.
Influence means nothing.
This was one of them.
Disheartened, I stepped back, my hands shaking. My mother approached me slowly, her eyes swollen with tears, her face pale with fear.
She held my face between her palms and spoke with a pain I had never heard in her voice.
"Your father wants to see you married," she said softly. "Tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The word echoed painfully in my head.
"He wants it done in front of him," she continued, her voice breaking. "With the daughter of his business partner."
Something inside me died.
I didn't scream.
I didn't argue.
I couldn't.
It felt like my soul had been ripped out of my body, leaving me hollow and numb. My ears rang. My heart pounded painfully against my chest. The thought of Alice—her smile, her trust, her belief in us—crashed into me all at once.
Losing my father terrified me.
But losing Alice felt unbearable.
I stood there, frozen between two impossible realities—one where I obey my dying father's last wish, and another where I stand by the woman who has become my home.
Time is cruel.
It doesn't wait for clarity.
It doesn't give you space to heal before demanding decisions.
I looked toward the hallway instinctively, knowing Alice was sleeping just a few rooms away—peacefully unaware that her entire future was about to be threatened by circumstances beyond either of us.
I needed time.
But time was something my father didn't have.
And suddenly, the weight of everything—love, duty, loss—pressed down on me at once.
I had to choose.
And I had to choose fast.