Three people stared down at me as if hell had opened under their feet.
“What happened?” I rasped, pretending to be confused.
Margaret recovered first. She threw herself beside me.
“Charles! Thank God! You collapsed. We were just about to call an ambulance!”
“Of course I’m alive,” I muttered. “Takes more than a dizzy spell to bury me.”
They helped me to the sofa, their eyes darting to one another in panic.
“This scare made me realize something,” I said weakly. “Life is fragile.”
“Dad, you should rest,” Ethan said, pale and shaking.
“No. Next week is our fortieth wedding anniversary. I rented the grand ballroom at The Langham. I’m launching the Whitman Family Foundation. I want everyone there—the board, the politicians, our friends. Pastor Daniel too.”
I looked directly at Margaret.
“I want everyone present when I step down and transfer power to the next generation.”
They exhaled.
They smiled.
They thought they had won.
