Alpha Terry Thatcher filled the doorway with his presence—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of commanding aura that made everyone in a room automatically defer to him. His red hair was just like mine, and the only thing of his that I had was perfectly styled despite what must have been a long journey, and his expensive suit showed no signs of travel wear.
I sat frozen on the bed, overwhelmed by emotions—joy, fear, hope, resentment, and desperate love all crashing together in my chest. It really was him. After nine months of silence, of unanswered calls and rejected visits, he was here.
My father entered the room and nodded curtly to Dr. Maxwell and Sarah. "Doctor. Sarah. If you could give us some privacy."
Both of them immediately filed out, closing the door behind them. The room fell into heavy silence, broken only by the soft beeping of my monitors.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. He looked older than I remembered, with new lines around his eyes and a weariness in his posture that hadn’t been there before. But his gaze was the same—assessing, never missing anything.
"How are you, Rhett?" he asked quietly.
The simple question, spoken in that familiar deep voice, broke something inside me. Tears gathered in my eyes despite my desperate attempts to brush them aside. I was supposed to be stronger than this, supposed to be the heir he could be proud of, but seeing him here after so long made me feel like a child again.
My father crossed the room to my bed and sighed, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Do all your women know you cry this easily?"
Unable to hold myself together anymore, I reached for him, pulling him into a fierce hug. I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed like I hadn’t since I was small.
"I’ve missed you, Dad," I choked out between tears. "I miss you so much."
He laughed warmly as he patted my back with gentle strength. "I know, son. I know."
When I finally leaned back, he handed me his handkerchief—the same monogrammed silk one he’d always carried—and settled onto the edge of my bed.
"What have you been up to?" he asked, his tone lighter now.
"Not much," I admitted, wiping my eyes.
"And you failed first year again?" His eyebrow arched with that mixture of disappointment and amusement I knew so well. "How long are you planning to remain there before you move to the next class?"
I smiled despite myself. "I’ll pass this year. I promise."
There was a soft knock on the door, and Dr. Maxwell entered with an apologetic expression. "Alpha Thatcher, if I may? I want to remove the tubes and wires from Rhett’s chest. His condition has improved dramatically."
My father’s attention sharpened. "Why? What’s changed?"
"His cardiac function has normalised completely," Maxwell explained, moving to check my monitors. "The irregular heartbeat that’s plagued him for months has stabilised, his blood pressure is perfect, and the inflammation around his heart has reduced significantly. Frankly, it’s the kind of improvement we usually see over weeks of treatment, not hours."
As they talked, discussing my condition like I wasn’t sitting right there, I began to feel uncomfortably warm. It started as a mild flush, the kind you might get from embarrassment or excitement. I brushed it off, attributing it to the emotional side effects of seeing my father again.
But the heat didn’t fade. If anything, it seemed to be building, spreading from my chest outward like slow-burning fire. My breathing became slightly more laboured, though I tried to hide it.
"...remarkable recovery," Maxwell was saying. "I’ve never seen anything quite like it."
The warmth was becoming uncomfortable now, making my skin feel tight and hypersensitive. I shifted restlessly on the bed, trying to find a position that would alleviate the growing discomfort.
"Rhett?" My father’s voice seemed to come from very far away, though he was sitting right beside me. "Are you alright?"
Doctor Maxwell glanced up, too. "You, okay?"
"Yeah," I manage to mutter. "Just warm, but I’m fine. "Is it hot in here?"
Doctor Maxwell crossed the room to my bed with a frown on his face. "You look flushed." Then he pressed a cool hand to my forehead. "He’s burning up."
"I’m fine," I insisted, shaking his hands off my head, even though the edge of the room began to tilt.
Today, of all days that I could finally hang out with my father, I couldn’t afford to be sick. I don’t know when the next opportunity would come, but I won’t miss it for anything in the world.
"Rhett?" I heard my father’s voice again.
I tried to answer, but my mouth felt strangely dry. The room had taken on an odd quality, like everything was slightly out of focus around the edges. The beeping of the monitors seemed louder, more insistent.
"I’m..." I started to say, but the words felt thick and clumsy on my tongue.
The heat was intensifying now, no longer just uncomfortable but approaching painful. It felt like my blood was literally boiling in my veins, like every cell in my body was burning from the inside out.
"Maxwell," my father’s voice cut through the growing haze, filled with alarm.
I tried to focus on his face, but it kept swimming in and out of clarity. The room was starting to spin slowly, and I could hear my heart rate monitor beginning to alarm as my pulse skyrocketed.
"Something’s wrong," I managed to whisper, though I wasn’t sure if anyone heard me. "I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, I’m not good enough. This was supposed to be a good day...
My hands began to tremble. My fingers curled weakly at my sides. The monitor was beeping erratically. I could hear Maxwell barking commands, but I didn’t know who they were to. I could also see my father’s worried gaze behind him, and I wished more than anything that I could say something to him or speak.
The burning sensation reached a crescendo, and then suddenly everything began to fade. The voices around me became distant echoes, the bright lights dimmed to soft shadows, and I felt myself falling backwards into darkness, my father’s concerned face the last thing I saw before consciousness slipped away entirely.