Chapter 2

That night, a storm broke over the city, the rain lashing against the windows of my father' s house. The sound of the wind was a mournful howl that matched the turmoil inside me. I was in the study, trying to sort through my father' s papers, when I heard a loud, insistent knocking at the front door. I ignored it, but it grew more frantic, punctuated by Julian' s voice shouting my name.

"Evelyn! Open the door! We need to talk!"

I stayed frozen in my chair, hoping he would give up. But then I heard the sound of a key in the lock. He still had a key from years ago, a key he was never supposed to use again. The door swung open, and he stormed in, his hair plastered to his forehead, his coat dripping water onto the hardwood floor.

"Why didn't you answer?" he demanded, his eyes wild. "I've been calling you for hours!"

"I have nothing to say to you, Julian," I said, standing up. "I told you to stay away from here. Give me that key."

He advanced on me, his face a mask of fury. "You can't just shut me out! After everything I've done for you, for Arthur!" He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "You're being hysterical. You're not thinking clearly."

The smell of rain and his own cold anger filled the air. I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "Let go of me, Julian."

"Not until you listen!" he seethed. "You're ruining everything! Your stubbornness, your pride! You think you can fight the board? You think you can fight me? You'll lose. You'll have nothing."

The storm outside raged, and in that moment, the storm inside the room felt just as violent. I felt a surge of fear, a primal instinct to get away from him. With a strength I didn't know I had, I wrenched my arm free and stumbled back, putting the heavy oak desk between us.

He stood there, panting, his chest heaving. The rain pounded against the glass, and for a long moment, the only sound was the storm and our harsh breathing. He didn't come after me. He just stared, his eyes burning with a possessiveness that terrified me. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his expression changed. He straightened his coat, ran a hand through his wet hair, and the madness was gone, replaced by a chilling calm.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Have it your way. But you'll regret this." He turned and walked out, leaving the front door wide open to the storm.

I sank into my father' s chair, my body trembling. I wrapped my arms around myself, the fabric of my sweater feeling thin and useless. My arm throbbed where he had grabbed me. I felt a suffocating sense of helplessness wash over me. The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison.

On the desk, beside my father' s telescope schematics, was a small, framed photo. It was of me and my father at my medical school graduation. We were both beaming. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the outline of his proud smile. We used to be a team. He was the stars, I was the brain.

He taught me to look up, to wonder. I dedicated my life to understanding the delicate machinery that allowed for that wonder. Now, his own machinery was failing, and I was failing to protect him from the world.

A wave of memories crashed over me. I remembered the day I got the acceptance letter for the prestigious neurosurgery fellowship at Johns Hopkins. It was the culmination of years of hard work, of sleepless nights and endless exams. I had called my father first, my voice shaking with excitement. He was so proud.

But just a few months later, the first diagnosis came. A rare, degenerative neurological disorder. The specialists gave him a few years, at best. I didn't hesitate. I called the fellowship director and told them I couldn't accept. I packed my bags and came home. I told myself it was the only choice. Family came first.

I would be his caregiver, his advocate, his memory when his own started to fail. I never regretted the decision, but I never forgot what I gave up.

The deepest, most painful memory surfaced, one I rarely allowed myself to revisit. It was from two years ago, long before my father's diagnosis was confirmed, when the symptoms were still subtle and confusing.

My mother was still alive then. She had a sudden, massive stroke. I was on call at the hospital, a frantic intern trying to keep my composure as I coordinated her care. I called Julian, who was supposed to be a family friend, my father' s trusted right hand.

I begged him to go to the house, to be with my father, to make sure he wasn't alone while I was stuck at the hospital. He promised he would. He never showed up. He said later that he got caught up at the observatory, that he lost track of time.

My father sat alone in the house for six hours, not knowing if his wife was alive or dead. My mother died the next day. I never fully forgave Julian for that. His absence during our family's darkest hour was a betrayal I had buried, but never forgotten.

Now, his current actions felt like a continuation of that same selfish disregard. He was so blinded by his ambition and his obsession with me that he couldn't see the cruelty of his actions. I remembered a conversation with him just last week, before the letter. I had tried to reason with him, to explain that I was only trying to honor my father's wishes for his research.

"Evelyn, you're being emotional," he had said, his tone condescending. "Arthur would want his work to move forward, not sit in boxes gathering dust while you play nurse."

"Playing nurse?" I had repeated, stunned. "I'm keeping my father comfortable and safe. I'm his daughter."

"And I am his scientific heir," he had retorted, his voice sharp. "That is a far greater responsibility."

The injustice of it all was a physical weight. I had sacrificed my dream for my family, while he had sacrificed my family for his dreams. I looked around the study, at the shelves filled with books on cosmology and physics, at the star charts pinned to the walls. This was my father's world, a world of order, and logic, and breathtaking beauty.

Julian was turning it into a battlefield, and I was the primary casualty. The trembling in my body finally subsided, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. The despair was gone. In its place was a quiet, burning anger. He thought I was weak. He thought I would break. He was wrong.