Chapter 1 - The Descent of the MorrisonsThe autumn wind whipped across the porch of the Whitmore lakeside house, carrying the damp chill of the lake, but it was nothing compared to the ice-cold shock that had stopped my heart a moment earlier.
I lay crumpled on the hardwood floorboards of the porch, my clothes soaked through with melting ice water, shivering so violently that my bones ached. My 103-degree fever roared inside my skull like a furnace, blurring the lights of the approaching vehicles into blinding streaks of gold and white.
The heavy crunch of gravel signaled the arrival of three black armored SUVs. The doors flew open in unison.
Before the dust could settle, Dr. Marcus Hale—chief medical officer of Hale-Morrison Health and one of the most sought-after diagnosticians in the country—was kneeling by my side. He didn't care about the mud or the water. His face was etched with sheer, unadulterated terror and fury.
“Get the thermal blanket! Now!” Dr. Hale shouted to the paramedics behind him, his fingers immediately pressing against my freezing wrist to check my pulse. “Her core temperature is dangerously low. She’s in septic shock from the flu.”
Inside the house, the music had died completely.
Footsteps echoed on the entryway floor as Evelyn Whitmore, followed by a bewildered and pale Daniel, stepped cautiously out onto the porch. Evelyn wore an aggressive, defensive smile that faltered the second she recognized the silver-haired man stepping out of the middle vehicle.
Thomas Morrison.
Billionaire healthcare investor. Philanthropist. Chairman of Morrison Global. And, to the absolute horror of everyone breathing inside that house, my father.
Evelyn’s face turned the color of curdled milk. Her jaw dropped, but no sound came out.
Behind her, Daniel pushed through the doorway, his eyes widening in total disbelief. He stared from my shivering, wet body on the floor up to the towering, imposing figure of my father.
“T-Thomas... Mr. Morrison?” Daniel stammered, taking a stumbling step forward, his voice cracking with panic. “What... what are you doing here? Is this some kind of... of mistake? My wife—she’s just...”
My father did not look at Daniel. He didn't even acknowledge that the man existed.
Thomas Morrison walked past the paramedics, knelt beside my frozen body, and gently lifted my head onto his lap, his voice trembling with a grief and rage that made the entire porch fall deadly silent.
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“My baby girl,” my father whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to my forehead. He looked up, and his eyes locked onto Evelyn Whitmore.
It was a look that promised absolute destruction.
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