Sylvia and Luke appear to have the perfect life. A thriving fashion startup, a beautiful four-year-old daughter, and a love that began when they met at Harvard Business School. But beneath the surface, Luke hides a dark secret-he's the heir to one o...
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I sprint down the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest, my father's office disappearing behind me. Every step echoes with a sense of urgency as Maria leads us to Lyria's side.
As we reach Lyria's room, my stomach twists with fear. Maria pushes the door open, revealing a scene that sends a jolt of panic coursing through my veins.
Lyria lies motionless on her bed, her small frame engulfed by a blanket, her face pale and drawn. Sylvia rushes to her side from the bathroom, her hands trembling as she checks for signs of life.
"What's happening?" Her voice trembles with fear as she rushes to Lyria's side, her eyes wide with panic.
I join Sylvia at Lyria's bedside, my heart in my throat as I watch my daughter, so small and fragile, lying unconscious before us. Panic threatens to consume me, but I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
"I found her like this just a few minutes ago. She wouldn't wake up, no matter what I tried," Maria explains, her voice quivering with fear.
My mind races, searching for answers, for any clue as to what could have caused Lyria to fall unconscious. But in the face of my daughter's condition, my thoughts are scattered, disjointed.
"Luke, we need to get her to a hospital," Sylvia says, her voice urgent. "Now."
"I will have someone drive you there." My father suddenly appears in the doorway, his face ashen but composed. He steps aside to let the bodyguard through, who nods and heads off to prepare the car.
Sylvia scoops her into her arms, her small body limp and unresponsive. A cold fear grips my heart as I follow Sylvia and my father down the hall. We move swiftly, a tense silence hanging over us, broken only by the hurried footsteps and the distant hum of activity from the rest of the house.
I cling to Sylvia's side, her hand gripping mine with a desperate strength. "Hold on, baby." she whispers, her voice cracking.
The driver is waiting with the car, engine running. He opens the door, Sylvia and I carefully slide into the backseat with Lyria in her arms, and my father takes the front passenger seat, barking instructions to the driver.
"To the hospital. As fast as you can," he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.
The car speeds off, tires screeching on the gravel driveway. I cradle them closer, my heart pounding in time with the rhythm of the engine. Sylvia's hand never leaves mine, her presence a lifeline in the midst of chaos.
"She's going to be okay," I murmur, more to convince myself than anyone else. "She has to."
Sylvia nods, tears streaming down her face. "She better be."
The drive feels like an eternity, each second stretching into an unbearable length. I blame my father for choosing to live in the middle of nowhere. Each mile a maddening tick of the clock against Lyria's well-being. My mind races, replaying every moment, every detail, searching for answers.
