Chapter 2 Return and Reunion

Harper

The wheels of the plane touched down on Los Angeles soil with a gentle thud. As other passengers rushed to gather their belongings, I remained seated, allowing myself a moment to absorb the weight of my return.

"Harper?" Isla leaned across the aisle, her tablet already powered up. "The car service is confirmed. I've arranged for your luggage to be taken directly to the Pinnacle Hotel."

I nodded, appreciating her efficiency. "Thank you, Isla."

"I can accompany you to the hotel if you'd like," Isla offered as we reached the exit. "We could review the summit agenda over dinner."

"You go ahead to the hotel," I replied, pulling my sunglasses from my purse. "There's somewhere I need to go first. Alone."

Concern flickered across her features. "Are you sure? You must be exhausted from the flight."

"I'm fine." I softened my tone with a slight smile. "Some things can't wait."

Isla hesitated before handing me a set of car keys. "The Audi is in section C, spot 142. And Harper..." She lowered her voice. "Don't forget the tech summit tonight. Lawson Group is expecting their keynote speaker."

"I won't be late," I promised, taking the keys. "I just need to see him."

As Isla departed with our luggage, I made my way to the parking garage. The sleek black Audi waited exactly where promised—Isla's meticulous planning never failed. Behind the wheel, I allowed myself a deep breath before entering the address into the navigation system.

St. John's Private Care Facility was nestled among carefully manicured trees in a quiet corner of Brentwood. The facility's pristine corridors were hushed, the scent of disinfectant mingling with fresh flowers.

A nurse at the reception desk recognized my name immediately, her eyes widening slightly before she composed herself.

"Room 312, Ms. Sinclair. Down the hall to your right."

I followed her directions, my heels clicking against the polished floor. Each step brought a fresh wave of anxiety. Five years was a long time to be away from someone you love, especially when they might not even know you've gone.

Outside room 312, I paused. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the door handle. I drew a steadying breath, forcing my professional mask back into place. The door opened with a soft click.

Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting gentle shadows across the room. The steady rhythm of medical equipment provided a mechanical heartbeat to the silence. And there, amid the technology keeping him alive, lay my father.

Wyatt Sinclair had always been imposing—tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that commanded attention in any boardroom. The man before me seemed diminished somehow, his once-powerful frame rendered still beneath crisp white sheets. His face, though thinner, remained peaceful.

I approached slowly, the sound of my breathing suddenly loud in my ears. When I finally reached his bedside, I gently took his hand in mine. His skin felt warm, alive—a cruel contradiction to his unresponsive state.

"Dad," I whispered, tears blurring my vision despite my determination to remain composed. "I'm home. Just like I promised."

The monitors continued their steady beeping, indifferent to my return.

"I've become stronger, just like you always wanted." My voice cracked slightly. "You should see what I've accomplished. The quantum architecture we discussed that night—I've made it work. Better than anyone thought possible."

I smoothed the blanket across his chest, a gesture of tenderness I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years.

"I'm going to find out what really happened to you. I'm going to make it right." My voice dropped lower, hardening with resolve. "And I'm going to make them pay."

A crash from the doorway startled me. I turned to see my mother standing there, a water glass shattered at her feet, her hands covering her mouth in shock.

"Harper?" Her voice was barely audible. "Is it really you?"

Five years had aged Maren Sinclair dramatically. Her once-vibrant auburn hair was now mostly gray, and deep lines carved paths from her eyes. But the way she looked at me—with that same unconditional love—remained unchanged.

"Mom," I whispered, and then she was in my arms, her slender frame shaking with sobs.

"I thought—I was starting to think I'd never see you again," she managed between tears, pulling back to cup my face in her trembling hands. "Let me look at you. My beautiful girl."

We moved to the small sitting area outside my father's room, both unwilling to disturb his peace with our emotion. A nurse quietly cleaned up the broken glass while my mother held my hands so tightly I could feel her pulse.

"How is he?" I asked, though the answer was evident.

Mom sighed deeply. "The same. The brainstem function persists, but the doctors say..." She swallowed hard. "They say he may never wake up."

"And you? How have you been managing?"

"I've been here every day. Vivien has been a godsend—she arranged everything. This facility, the private care, even making sure I had somewhere to live after..." She trailed off.

"After Whitaker Holdings took everything," I finished for her, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Mom nodded. "The police ruled it an accident. Said your father was distressed about the company crisis and lost control of the car." Her eyes hardened momentarily. "We both know that's not true."

"No," I agreed quietly. "It's not."

"Harper..." Mom hesitated. "Why now? After all this time?"

I considered how much to reveal. "I needed to be ready. I needed to become someone they couldn't ignore or dismiss." I squeezed her hands gently. "I'm not just here for Intellect, Mom. I'm here to find out what really happened to Dad and to Sinclair Technologies."

Fear flashed across her features. "You're going after Rowan Whitaker? Harper, his influence in this city is even greater now than it was five years ago."

"I'm not the same person he knew," I replied with a cold smile. "I've learned a few things about influence myself."

"You have that look," Mom said softly. "The same one your father had when he was planning something that frightened me."

I softened my expression. "Don't worry. I haven't come alone, and I haven't come unprepared." I glanced at my watch. "I should go. I have an appearance to make tonight."

"Will I see you again soon?" The vulnerability in her voice tugged at my heart.

"Very soon," I promised. "And I'll be bringing some special people to meet you."

Her eyes widened in understanding. "The children?"

I nodded, warmth replacing the coldness that had settled in my chest. "They're eager to meet their grandmother."

Before leaving, I returned to my father's bedside. Looking down at his still form, I whispered, "I'll make this right, Dad. I swear it."

---

The Pinnacle Hotel suite was a flurry of activity when I arrived. Isla had arranged everything perfectly—stylists, makeup artists, and a rack of evening gowns awaited my selection.

"The summit begins at eight," Isla reported, handing me a glass of water as a makeup artist began prepping my skin. "Lawson Group has positioned your keynote immediately after the welcome address. Their PR team is generating significant buzz around your appearance."

I nodded, scanning the guest list she'd handed me. Near the top, highlighted in yellow, was the name that sent a chill down my spine: Rowan Whitaker, CEO, Whitaker Holdings Inc.

My finger hovered over his name momentarily before I handed the list back to Isla. "Any word on who else from Whitaker will be attending?"

"Their entire executive team, according to our sources," Isla replied. "Apparently, they're quite interested in your chip."

I bet they are, I thought, but kept my expression neutral.

After two hours of preparation, I stood before the full-length mirror. The woman reflected back was a far cry from the heartbroken girl who had fled Los Angeles five years ago. My deep blue evening gown struck the perfect balance between professional authority and feminine elegance. My hair, once long and soft, now fell in a sophisticated shoulder-length cut that framed my face.

But it was my eyes that had changed the most—calculating, assured, and unmistakably dangerous.

"The stage is set," I murmured to my reflection. "Let's see if you recognize me now, Rowan Whitaker."