Chapter 5 - THE AWAKENING OF THE KING
For thirty-six hours, Richard Sterling remained in a medically induced coma, suspended in the sterile cocoon of ICU Room 1.
I didn’t leave the hospital.
I slept in two-hour shifts on the leather sofa in Julian’s temporary guest office. Julian brought me black coffee, fresh scrubs, and updates from the pathology department. The preliminary biopsy results confirmed our findings: the initial dissection had begun at least sixty hours prior to bypass.
At 3:15 p.m. on Thursday, Richard’s eyelids flickered.
I was at his bedside, adjusting the infusion rate of his vasodilators. Julian was seated near the door, reviewing the post-operative echocardiogram.
A low, gravelly groan escaped Richard’s throat.
“Richard,” I said gently, placing two fingers on his radial pulse. “Do not try to speak. You have an endotracheal tube in your airway. You had emergency open-heart surgery. You are at Sterling Memorial.”
The old man’s eyes—steel gray, fiercely intelligent—snapped open.
He didn’t panic. Richard Sterling had commanded boardroom takeovers for forty years; he understood crisis instantly. His gaze found mine. His pupils dilated with recognition, followed by a profound, shuddering wave of relief.
He squeezed my hand. His grip was weak, trembling, but unmistakable.
“We’re going to extubate you now,” I told him softly. “Julian, give me suction.”
The procedure was quick. Within two minutes, the breathing tube was out, and Richard was coughing weakly, sipping ice water from a sponge I held to his cracked lips.
“Althia…” his voice was a broken rasp, like dry leaves scraping over concrete.
“Rest, Richard. The repair is solid. You’re going to live.”
“Preston…” Richard croaked, his eyes darting toward the glass doors of the ICU. “Where… is he?”
Before I could answer, the glass door slid open with a soft hiss.
Preston entered, flanked by Cecily.
Both of them had spent the last day scrubbing the internet of the press briefing disaster. Cecily had hired a high-end crisis management firm. She was dressed impeccably in another one of my designer outfits—a navy Valentino dress I had purchased for my post-symposium dinner in Paris.
“Dad!” Preston cried, rushing to the bedside, his face glowing with theatrical affection. “Dad, oh God, you’re awake! We were so worried. The doctors said you might not make it through the night.”
Richard didn’t smile. He didn’t raise a hand to touch his son.
His gray eyes slowly shifted from Preston to Cecily.
Cecily stepped forward, offering a soft, filial bow of her head. “We’ve been praying at your bedside every hour, Richard. Preston hasn’t slept for three days.”
Richard looked at Cecily’s left hand, which was resting ostentatiously on the chrome rail of his bed.
The gold wedding band caught the harsh fluorescent light.
The old man’s heart monitor gave a sudden, sharp spike. *Beep-beep-beep-beep.*
“What… is that?” Richard rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register.
Preston cleared his throat, shooting Cecily an anxious, warning glance. “Dad… we had to make some rapid decisions while you were sick. To protect the voting trust from Vanguard. Cecily and I… we accelerated our civil arrangement.”
Richard’s gaze shifted back to me.
He saw that I was standing on the other side of the bed, silent, wearing hospital scrubs, my left ring finger completely bare. The five-carat cushion-cut engagement diamond he had helped Preston select at Harry Winston was sitting in the safe in my office.
“Althia,” Richard breathed, his chest heaving under the sternal binder. “Where… is your ring?”
“Ask your son, Richard,” I said quietly.
Preston stepped forward aggressively, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Dad, don’t listen to her. Althia is trying to sabotage the hospital. She caused a public relations disaster in the lobby yesterday. Cecily and I had to step in as legal proxies to save the stock from crashing!”
“Legal proxies?” Richard’s voice was gaining strength, fueled by a rising, incandescent fury that transcended physical pain.
“You signed the durable power of attorney on Tuesday,” Cecily said smoothly, pulling a crisp, blue-backed document from her leather portfolio. “It granted Preston full conservatorship over the Sterling trust, with myself as secondary executor. It was executed at your bedside in Greenwich.”
Richard looked at the document. Then he looked at Preston.
“Tuesday…” Richard whispered. “On Tuesday… I told you… my chest was tearing in half.”
The room went dead, terrifyingly cold.
“Dad, you were confused—” Preston began.
“I told you… to call Althia!” Richard’s voice suddenly cracked like a whip, so loud that the nurse outside jumped. “I told you… to get her on a private plane from Paris! And you… you brought a notary to my bedroom!”
Preston took a step back, his skin draining of color.
“You gave me a glass of whiskey,” Richard rasped, tears of pure, burning rage gathering in his eyes. “You told me it was angina. You told me the lawyers needed my signature before the ambulance arrived or the board would seize the accounts upon my admission!”
Cecily’s voice trembled, her polished composure cracking. “Richard, you were delirious. We were acting in your best interest—”
“You left me to rot in that bed for two days!” Richard roared, struggling to sit up.
Julian stepped forward instantly, placing two large, firm hands on Richard’s shoulders, keeping the old man from tearing his newly reconstructed aorta. “Easy, Richard. Your blood pressure cannot take this. Lie back.”
Richard gripped Julian’s forearms, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Preston with the hatred of a king betrayed by his own flesh.
“You didn’t rush me to the hospital,” Richard hissed, his voice shaking with venom. “Because you wanted to make sure… that if I died on that table… you owned every share before Althia could tell me what you’d done.”
“Dad, that’s insane!” Preston shouted, his voice cracking into panic. “I love you! I saved your life! I brought her here!”
“You brought her here because every other surgeon told you I was going to die!” Richard spat. “You thought she loved you enough to save me for your sake! You thought her hands belonged to you!”
Richard turned his head toward the door.
“Julian,” Richard commanded.
“Yes, Richard,” Julian said.
“Call the Chief of Hospital Security. Call Arthur Pendelton, the senior partner at Sullivan & Cromwell. And bring two New York City police officers to this room.”
Cecily stepped back, clutching her portfolio to her chest like a shield. “Richard, you can’t do this. I am a Sterling now. Preston is the acting Chairman!”
Richard Sterling looked at Cecily with a disgust so absolute it felt like an execution.
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“You are a parasite wearing my daughter-in-law’s clothes,” Richard said, his voice dropping into a lethal, steady whisper. “And before the sun sets on this city, I will strip both of you down to the dirt you crawled out of.”
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