Billionaire Daddy's Virgin

by Bella Love-Wins

  It’s Vernon, my father’s driver. Why would he phone me?

  Swiping the call answer button this time, I take the call. “Vernon? How can I help you?”

  “Good evening, Miss Buchannan. My apologies for phoning you this late in the evening. I’m afraid I have some alarming news.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s about your father… Mr. Buchannan collapsed as I was driving him from the office to an evening meeting.”

  “What? Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, Ma’am. I drove him to the emergency room at St. Grace-Mercy Hospital.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell him, and hang up.

  I’m so confused and flustered about this news that I’m barely aware of what my hands are doing automatically as I wave over the waiter for the bill, fish out my wallet from my purse, place a credit card on the table, and go searching for Vanessa. I find her and Liam in what must be a difficult conversation, but I’m not in the right headspace to hang back and wait for the mood to lighten.

  “Vanessa, sorry to interrupt. I have to leave. It’s my dad.” I can’t manage to find any more words to explain myself further, but thankfully, Vanessa makes up for my brevity.

  “Oh my God. I’ll go with you. My car’s outside.” She gives Liam a nod and follows me back to the table so I can sign the bill and we leave. “What happened?” she asks as we get outside.

  “I don’t know. He collapsed. It doesn’t sound good. I just have a bad feeling.”

  “Try not to worry. I’ll get you there as quickly as possible.” She rests her hand on mine as we get to her car and hop inside. “Try not to worry until we have the facts.”

  All of a sudden, I’m curious about what he wanted to talk about. He’s been phoning and texting all day, and not once did I get in touch with him. It’s as though I’ve turned into him, and I promised myself that I’d never treat another soul the way he treated me all my life. Including him. It’s that guilt that lingers all the way to the hospital.

  Please let him be all right.

  19

  Cherry

  This can’t be happening.

  No. It’s not real.

  I sit in the corner of the emergency operating room waiting area, not sure how to think or feel.

  The nurse at the desk down the hall told me that my father is in surgery. Dad had a stroke. My father? The stream of questions won’t stop. How could he have had a stroke when he’s the healthiest person I know? How could it have happened so quickly? His unanswered messages and texts that have been coming on my phone all day haunt me. What did Dad want to talk about?

  Vanessa squeezes my shoulder from her spot in the seat beside me, doing her best to show her support. She means well, but nothing can console me right now. I want answers. I need to know why I haven’t been able to see him for the almost two hours since I’ve been here. And where’s Jace? I texted him as soon as I got the call from Vernon. God, I need him so bad right now.

  Then she walks in.

  Peggy Reid-Buchannan.

  She has the unique pleasure of being Dad’s second and fourth ex-wife. Dad married and divorced her, then remarried her after he ended it with Kiki, his third wife. Then he divorced her again after she found him in bed—in their bed—with another woman. Not Kiki.

  Why is she even here? Dad divorced her for a second time over a year ago. I have to wonder who would have even told her Dad was undergoing emergency surgery. She catches sight of me as she walks in wearing an elegant black lace and tulle Christian Dior evening gown with a hem that flows right to the floor, barely showing her crystal on white- Jimmy Choo pointy toe pumps. As always, she’s the height of poise and composure, and doesn’t have so much a single misplaced strand of hair on her blonde shoulder-length bob. She’s also the reason I’ve built up this knowledge of everything haute couture. And my aversion to it. Of all the ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, and ex-playthings that Dad had after he lost my mother, Peggy was the most entrenched in New York’s elite. Too bad she also stuck around the longest.

  “Oh my God, Cherry,” she croons to me, crossing the room to give me her usual, a fake air-kiss on both sides of my face. “I came as soon as I heard. How is he?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s still in surgery.”

  She pulls back, inspecting my face and clothes as she straightens up. “Goodness, dear. You look a mess.”

  I look down my body and shrug. I can see why she thinks that way. This pink on cream striped button-down blouse and light gray pencil skirt that I wore to work today are from a cute indie boutique near where I live. That’s bottom rung wannabe designer trash, in Peggy’s opinion. As a renowned socialite, the woman probably doesn’t own a pair of jeans.

  But I’m not here to impress my dad’s ex-wife.

  “How did you find out?” I ask to redirect the conversation to where it should be. She has no business being here in the first place.

  “You can’t be serious, dear,” she haughtily drags out the words as she leans carefully against a nearby wall. Peggy wouldn’t dare sit down in her designer dress. Not here, where the Petri dish of the city congregates, as she would say. “Your father and I may not be together anymore, but we’ve always remained close. Gerald’s staff all know that.”

  Thank God for small miracles. Erica Meyer arrives. She’s Dad’s family lawyer and also happens to be his first cousin. Erica may be the only woman in Manhattan who Peggy can’t intimidate. I rise to my feet to greet her, but Vanessa gives my shoulder an extra-quick squeeze to get my attention. “That must be one of the surgeons,” she tells me, nodding over in the opposite direction.

  With some hesitation, I head over, followed closely by Peggy and Erica.

  Erica runs a hand over the side of her head, tucking some of her jet black hair behind her ear. She smooths out the jacket of her navy pants suit and is the first to extend her hand to the surgeon, a man in his forties with a medium build.

  “Doctor…Gibbs,” she quickly reads off his name embroidered into his scrubs above his left pec. “I’m Erica Meyer, Gerald’s family attorney,” she introduces herself, and motions toward me, ignoring Peggy, because we both know that if we don’t make a clear line in the sand, Peggy will strong-arm her way into a decision-making role. “This is his daughter, Cheryl Buchannan.”

  “Miss Buchannan, Miss Meyer,” he answers, nodding at me as he shakes her hand.

  “I’m Mrs. Buchannan,” Peggy cuts in.

  “Peggy please,” Erica groans. “Doctor, please ensure the hospital administrators note that Peggy Reid-Buchannan is no longer married to Gerald, and thus, only his daughter here, Cheryl Buchannan, has power of attorney and full rights as next of kin.”

  “We’ll be sure to get that sorted out soon,” Dr. Gibbs says nervously, taking a slow, slight step back, the way anyone would once they realize they’ve stepped too close to a hornet’s nest.

  “What’s the status, Doctor?” Erica asks.

  He clears his throat and looks at me, seeming to thoughtfully craft his update. “Miss Buchannan, your father has suffered a severe hemorrhagic stroke.”

  “I don’t understand. How did this happen? My father’s in great shape. He told me a few weeks ago that he got a clean bill of health from our family doctor.”

  “It can happen to anyone at any time, even people in great health. We’ve stabilized him, but I’m afraid the survival rate for this particular type of stroke is quite low.”

  “How low?” Peggy demands. “What are his chances?”

  Dr. Gibbs doesn’t respond, looking to me for the next question. I nod, conceding to his response to Peggy. “Miss Buchannan, your father won’t ever recover to the man he was before this event. There’s a ten, maybe fifteen percent chance that he’ll begin to breathe on his own again, but it’s not an exact science.”

  “Is he conscious?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, Miss Buchannan. It’s very unlikely that your father will ever wake up. His
condition is consistent with…with similar patients. Nonresponsive pupils, no gag reflex, breathing requires assistance using a life support system, no response to pain stimuli. We suggest waiting the night, but as it stands, these symptoms show his brain stem reflexes have diminished, severely.”

  Peggy starts to sob loudly next to me. I want to tell her to shut up and remember that she’s his ex-wife. They got divorced for a reason, and turning on the theatrics won’t do me or Dad any good right now.

  “Is there any chance at all that Gerald’s condition is the result of…foul play?” Erica asks with some hesitation.

  I’m not surprised about the question. My father has always been a sharp businessman, fierce and astute bordering on manipulative and cutthroat. He makes no excuse for residing in the gray area when it comes to business ethics—or personal, for that matter. He’s bound to have made some enemies over the years.

  Dr. Gibbs shakes his head. “That’s doubtful. There was no sign of physical trauma anywhere on him, and his toxicology screen is clear. No drugs, alcohol, or poisons in his system.”

  I’m more interested in how quickly Dad will pull through from this. “Do you think he may improve overnight?” I ask.

  “It’s difficult to tell. In all likelihood, he won’t,” he says softly. “Ma’am, at this point, our medical team recommends one night of observation. The next few hours are critical in helping us arrive at a more definitive prognosis. We’ll provide an update within eight to twelve hours. You should go home. Get some rest. I’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Sure. I’ll have the nurse get you after post-operative care is complete.” Dr. Gibbs presses his lips together and gives me a somber look. “Good night, Miss Buchannan. Miss Meyer. Speak with you in the morning.”

  As he walks away, so does all my hope.

  Dad’s close to the end. I didn’t have to read between the lines. Dr. Gibbs didn’t mince words. Ten percent chance of breathing on his own. Nonresponsive. Severe stroke.

  Dad’s dying.

  So why don’t I feel anything at all?

  I’m on my way back to my seat beside Vanessa when Jace and his father walk into the waiting room.

  Thank God.

  Or maybe not. Jace hurries over to me, stopping short a few feet away, even though I need his strong arms around me right now.

  Because we have a secret.

  His father—my boss—still doesn’t know about us.

  20

  Cherry

  A nurse leads me to a private post-operative room and motions for me to go inside. I thank her, but stand in the doorway, hesitant as I take in the dimmed lighting and sanitized space. It’s not much different from the relationship my father, and I have had all our lives. Cold. Distant. Neat. Muted. So many monitors are in the room, tracking his vitals and keeping him alive. The sounds only help to remind me of how disconnected our lives are. He created a divide between us, unlike these pieces of equipment connecting him to this world, helping him fight for his life.

  There are probably only a handful of milestones in my life where I can remember him being around. One or two birthdays. An elementary school recital where I played the Georgia peach. And that time, I only saw him because he stepped out of the shadows from the far back of the school gymnasium because I accidentally fell off the stage. He wasn’t at my high school or college graduation. At least I didn’t see him. And what about his big moments? I wasn’t included in any of them. He eloped for every one of his marriages. If he received any awards in business, I’d learn about them in the news like every other stranger. Did he have a health condition that predisposed him for this stroke? He never told me.

  Should I be here?

  If he were conscious, would he even want me here?

  I step inside and walk over to his bedside. My heart tightens in my chest as I look down into his face. He’s so pale. So frail. So still. So human. I can hardly recognize him. It’s as if he aged a couple of decades as a result of his stroke. What hits me the hardest are the details of his face. His eyes are closed, highlighting the dark lashes we have in common. His lips are pressed tight, but they have that same cupid’s bow shape as mine. I don’t think I’ve been around my father long enough to notice each feature up close. All my life, what I saw the most was the back of his head as he left me with nannies, babysitters, cleaning ladies, or his string of ex-wives.

  Until now.

  It’s fucking illogical, but I can’t help asking myself why we couldn’t have been more for each other. I tried in the early years, and remember giving up completely sometime before I hit my teens. It was that day I had a driver drop me off at my father’s office building. He was in a meeting or something. His secretary took pity on me and made me wait in his large corner office. Alone, I explored the room, picking up paperweights, his handwritten notes, framed photos of him and his buddies, him and each of his wives, everyone except me and my late mother. And when Dad finally returned and saw me sitting in his chair playing the boss lady, he wouldn’t step foot into the room. He just barked that he was too busy for this—for me—and had his secretary walk me back to my waiting driver.

  Was I so unlovable that he couldn’t stand the sight of me? What was it about me that caused him to detest being in the same room with me? I blink back the tears that threaten to fall. A wave of muddled emotions washes over me. First, sadness. And fear that I’ll lose him before we get to know each other, because deep down, I know I lost my father long before tonight. I’m angry too. Why does he have to wait until he’s on his deathbed to let me in?

  Light from the hallway stream in as someone opens the door. I look up to see the doctor waiting.

  “Yes?” I whisper.

  “I’d like to go over your father’s prognosis. We should speak in the hallway.”

  “How’s he doing, …Doctor Morgan?” I ask, reading his name tag just in time to add his name.

  “We’ve stabilized him. Your father’s on life support.”

  “Is he in any pain?”

  “There’s a morphine drip to manage the pain. Miss Buchannan, I’m here to discuss our goals of care going forward.”

  I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me. “Can you explain what that means?”

  “The stroke your father suffered was severe. Although he’s stable now, his brain stem function has failed. What that means is all these machines are keeping your father alive. He’s very likely to die if we remove any one of them.”

  “Very likely. Are you saying there’s a chance he’ll breathe on his own and his body will heal?”

  “It’s a very small chance. The human body does at times experience minimal recovery. Nothing’s one hundred percent guaranteed in your father’s case, but again, with the severity of his stroke, he’s not expected to survive without life support.”

  I’m dizzy. It’s all so overwhelming that I feel like I’m drowning underwater. There’s a message somewhere in the doctor’s update, but it’s more than I can process. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not following. This is all new to me. What are you asking me or advising me to do?”

  “We’re out of treatment options, Miss Buchannan. We can’t do anything more for your father, except keep him stable and manage his pain. In cases like these, we offer the patient’s next of kin a couple of comfort care options. The first option is to allow your father a natural passing. Meaning we would have you sign a do not resuscitate order and remove his life support. In which case, death will likely follow.”

  “And the other option?”

  “We would transfer him to long-term hospice care facility.”

  “And he’d remain like this?”

  “In my professional opinion, yes.”

  “But there’s a chance he’ll wake up on his own after removing life support?”

  He takes a look at a computer tablet in his hand, probably to look over my father’s data. “A small chance, however…your father’s listed as an organ donor. If we were
to test removing his life support in stages and he dies, well, the process is lengthy, and his organs wouldn’t be viable for donation. It’s the same case if he’s moved to hospice care.”

  The pounding in my ears makes it close to impossible to be rational right now. If I’m hearing this right, Dr. Morgan is letting me know that if I want to respect my father’s wishes to be an organ donor, I need to authorize pulling the plug—they want me to agree to killing my father.

  “I don’t know…this is a lot to take in, Doctor.”

  “You have some time to think it through.”

  “How much time?”

  “A day. Two maybe.”

  “Two days,” I mumble. “And I have to decide? No one else?”

  “That’s correct. You have medical power of attorney, according to the documentation your father’s lawyer provided. We’ll also continue to monitor him for any improvement during that time.”

  Jace, Erica, and Peggy come over to us, so I ask the doctor to repeat his update for their benefit. And for mine, as I don’t have the wherewithal to share something so dire with Erica or Peggy. I’m also relieved that Kiki is elsewhere. Adding her to the mix in this conversation would be a nightmare.

  “You have to keep him alive,” Peggy says firmly after hearing the prognosis and options. “If there’s a chance, we need to let him fight.”

  The feel of Jace’s protective arm around my shoulders makes this potential confrontation bearable. I can’t do this without him. Resting my head on the side of his chest, I let him shield me for moral support at least. I don’t even care anymore about what people will think if they know about us.

  “I’m afraid that’s Miss Buchannan’s call,” Doctor Morgan says.

  A vein on Peggy’s temple pops up from her excitement, or her anger. I can’t tell, but I’ve never seen her so animated. “I don’t care about what little tick box he might have checked on his driver’s license application fifteen or twenty or thirty years ago. He needs his organs. Organ donation recipient candidates can wait in line.”