Two hours on I-35 North from Dallas to the Hill Country, and I spent every minute staring at my phone's blank screen, willing a single bar of service to appear. Nothing. Just the dead zone stretching from the city limits into the scrubland, cutting me off from Winnie, from Pops, from the life I'd left behind five hours ago with promises of "two days, tops."
Harrison drove in professional silence, his eyes occasionally flicking to the rearview mirror where I sat rigid in the backseat, gripping my duffel like it was the only solid thing left in the world. The landscape blurred past—urban sprawl giving way to ranches, mesquite trees, limestone outcrops baking under the brutal Texas sun.
Nothing like Oklahoma. Nothing like home.
Home.When had the ranch become that? When had Oklahoma dirt under my nails started to feel more real than marble floors and designer suits?
"Almost there, Mr. Sterling," Harrison said quietly, the first words he'd spoken since we left the airport. There was something in his tone—pity, maybe. Or warning.
The gates appeared around a bend—wrought iron, twelve feet tall, flanked by stone pillars carved with the Sterling crest. The summer house. Five hundred acres of private Hill Country land, a sprawling white stone mansion that looked like it belonged in an architectural digest, not real life. This place had always been Dad's retreat—where he brought the family for "discussions" that were really lectures, where difficult conversations happened behind closed doors, where there was no escaping because there was nowhere to go.
Harrison punched in the code—a series of beeps—and the gates swung open with mechanical precision. The driveway wound through manicured grounds, past the guest cottages and the helipad, until the main house rose before us like a white fortress against the blue sky.
Mom was waiting on the veranda, her slim figure silhouetted against the morning light. She wore cream linen slacks and a silk blouse—her version of casual, which still cost an absurd amount. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a low chignon, and even from the car, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes that no amount of Botox could hide.
"Beau."
She was down the steps before Harrison fully stopped, pulling open my door, her arms wrapping around me before I could even stand. "Thank God you're here. I've been so worried."
"Mom." I hugged her back automatically, breathing in her signature Chanel, but my eyes were scanning past her toward the house. "Where's Dad? How is he? Z said—"
"He's inside. Resting. He's much better, the doctors said..." Her voice caught, and when she pulled back, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Come in, sweetheart. Come see him."
Something was wrong. Not with Dad—withthis. The whole scene felt staged, like I'd walked onto a set where everyone knew their lines except me.
Harrison grabbed my duffel, murmuring something about putting it in the guest wing, and disappeared into the house. Mom kept her hand on my arm as she led me up the veranda steps, her grip tighter than necessary.
"Mom, what's going on? Z said heart scare, hospital, but you're saying he's resting here? How did he get discharged so fast if it was serious?"
"The doctors cleared him this morning. They said it was stress-related, not a full cardiac event. He needs rest, monitoring, but he insisted on coming here. You know your father—hospitals make him impossible." She said it lightly, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.
The foyer was exactly as I remembered—soaring ceilings, marble floors, fresh flowers in crystal vases. Cool and perfect and utterly lifeless. No beeping monitors, no oxygen tanks, no sign that anyone in this house had experienced a medical emergency mere hours ago.
"He's in the study," Mom said, steering me down the familiar hallway. "Z's with him."
Z.Of course he was. He wasn't Dad's assistant for nothing. He said I needed to come home.
Home.He'd said home, not Dallas. Like Oklahoma was just a temporary detour. (Though it was supposed to be at first.)
The study doors were open. The room was exactly as intimidating as always—dark walnut paneling, massive windows overlooking the infinity pool, and the endless Texas landscape beyond.
And there, behind the oak desk sat my father.
He looked... fine.
Not pale and weak, propped up by pillows. Not wearing a hospital gown with IV lines trailing from his arms. He was dressed in a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sitting upright with a tumbler of amber liquid—scotch, definitely scotch—in his hand. His face had color. His eyes were sharp and clear. He looked like he'd just come from a golf game, not a hospital bed.
"Beau."
He stood as I entered, setting down his drink, and crossed the room to clasp my hand in his—firm, steady, no tremor. Then he did something that made my blood run cold: he smiled. A real smile, warm and approving. "Son. You made good time."
I stood frozen, my hand still in his, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I'd been told. "Dad. You're... you look..."
"Healthy?" He chuckled, releasing my hand to gesture at one of the leather armchairs arranged near the fireplace. "Sit, Beau. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Z was there—I hadn't noticed him at first, standing in the corner near the bookshelves like he was trying to blend into the wood paneling. Our eyes met for a brief second, and something flickered in his expression. Guilt? Apology? He looked away immediately, jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest.
What the hell was going on?
