Dad poured something into a glass of wine and handed it to me. “To my millionaire son,” he said, flashing a mysterious smile. His tone felt too rehearsed, too final. I thanked him, but when he turned toward the fireplace to adjust a photo frame, I quietly swapped our glasses.
I wish I could say I did it because I was paranoid. But the truth is, for the past month, strange things had been happening—my brakes failing on the highway, a loose step appearing out of nowhere on the attic stairs, a fire that “accidentally” started in my apartment. My father, Leonard Hayes, had always been a complicated man—brilliant, charismatic, and absolutely ruthless in business. We hadn’t spoken much in the last two years, not since I refused to sell him my tech startup. But tonight he invited me to his estate, claiming he wanted to “make things right.”
He poured the wine before I even sat down. “You’ve worked hard, Ethan. I’m proud of you.”
It sounded wrong. Too gentle. Too… staged.
I stalled with small talk, watching his hands, his eyes, the way he avoided looking at my glass. Dad wasn’t the type to toast to anything that didn’t benefit him.
Still, I forced a smile, lifted the glass I knew was now his, and said, “To second chances.”
Thirty minutes later, during dessert, he stopped mid-sentence. A strange look crossed his face—confusion first, then fear. He pressed a hand to his throat, reaching instinctively for his glass.
“Dad? You okay?” I asked, my voice shaking.
He stood up, staggered, knocking over the chair. His breathing turned shallow, ragged. He reached toward me—not angrily, not pleading—almost as if he wanted to say something he’d been holding back for years.
“Ethan…” he choked out.
Then his knees buckled.
And as he collapsed onto the hardwood floor, making a sickening thud, I felt my stomach twist into a knot. I didn’t know whether I had just saved my life… or destroyed it.
I dropped to my knees beside him. “Dad! Dad, stay with me!” My hands shook so badly I could barely dial 911. The operator told me to check his pulse—there was one, but faint. His eyes rolled, unfocused, almost panicked.
Paramedics arrived in minutes, rushing him onto a stretcher. One of them glanced at the half-empty wine glass on the table. “What did he drink?” he asked.
“Just wine,” I said. “We both did.”
“Both?” His eyebrows lifted. “You feel okay?”
A cold sweat trickled down my back.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”
I followed the ambulance to the hospital, replaying everything in my mind—Dad’s smile, his wording, the odd timing. But I also couldn’t shake the image of him reaching for me at the end, as if warning me… or apologizing.
Hours passed in a fluorescent-lit waiting room. Finally, a doctor approached.
“Mr. Hayes? Your father is stable—for now. We’re running tests, but it appears he ingested a substance consistent with a fast-acting benzodiazepine cocktail.”
A sedative. Strong in high doses. Not instantly lethal, but dangerous.
He had meant to sedate me? Why?
Detective Laura Keegan arrived shortly after, sharp-eyed, unimpressed by my obvious nerves.
“Mr. Hayes, we need to ask you a few questions.”
I nodded, swallowing hard.
She examined the wine bottle, the glasses, asked about my relationship with my father. When she learned we’d been estranged—especially over the company—she pressed harder.
“So you’re telling me your father may have drugged you… on the same night he suddenly collapses… and the glass with the substance is the one he drank from?”
“I didn’t poison him,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Did you switch the glasses?”
I froze.
She sighed. “Ethan, lying makes you look guilty. Did you switch them?”
“Yes. But only because I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“I thought he was trying to kill me.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“We’ll need to hold the wine bottle and glasses as evidence.”
Evidence. Against who? Him—or me?
When she walked away, the doctor returned with something in his hands.
“Mr. Hayes,” he said gently. “Your father woke up briefly. He said he needed you to hear something.”
My heart hammered in my chest.
“What did he say?”
The doctor hesitated.
“He said… ‘Tell Ethan to check the safe.’”
My blood ran cold.
PART 2 ends with Ethan realizing his father wasn’t trying to kill him—he was trying to warn him.
I drove back to Dad’s estate just as dawn broke, the sky bruised purple and gray. The house felt colder, emptier now, echoes stretching through the hall as I made my way to his study. I’d always wondered why he kept an old 1980s safe bolted behind a painting.
I entered the code I knew from childhood—his birthday.
It clicked open.
Inside were two folders, a USB drive, and a sealed envelope with my name scrawled in his handwriting.
My hands trembled as I opened the letter.
Ethan,
If you’re reading this, then I failed to fix what’s coming.
Someone inside your company has been selling proprietary schematics to an overseas competitor. When I confronted them, they made it clear they wanted me out of the way—and you next.
I invited you tonight to warn you, but I knew they might already be inside the house. The drug in your wine was meant to knock you out so I could take you somewhere safe. Not poison—protection.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I thought I had more time.
—Dad
My breath caught in my throat.
I had misread everything.
The smile.
The toast.
The glass.
He wasn’t planning to kill me.
He was planning to save me.
With shaking hands, I opened the folder labeled THREATS. Photos spilled out—surveillance shots of a man in a suit talking to one of my lead engineers. Email printouts. Bank transfers.
Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
A text message:
“You should’ve drunk the wine, Ethan.”
I dropped the phone. Someone had been watching us last night. Someone who now knew the plan failed.
Suddenly headlights flashed across the window—too slow, too deliberate. A car stopping outside. A car that wasn’t mine.
I backed away from the window, heart pounding. Dad was in the hospital, barely conscious. I was alone, holding enough evidence to destroy a traitor—and enough motive for the police to suspect me.
Another text came in.
“We’re not done.”
I swallowed hard.
The story wasn’t over—Dad’s collapse was only the beginning. And whatever was coming next… it was already at my door.