Chapter 147
~ Franklin ~
I couldn’t wait any longer.
The ER doors remained closed, offering no updates, no reassurance. Every passing minute stretched into an eternity of dread. None of the nurses or the doctor treating my grandfather had erged, and the silence was slowly driving insane. I needed to see Octavia. I needed to know she was still breathing, still here.
I left the waiting area and headed down the corridor toward her ward, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet hallway. When I pushed open the door, the sight inside stopped for a mont. Clinton sat on the sofa across from the hospital bed where Octavia lay motionless, still unconscious. The mont he saw , he stood up.
"Hey...what about your grandfather?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"They are—" I closed my eyes, the words catching painfully in my throat. "They are still operating on him in the ER," I finally managed, my voice cracking despite my effort to keep it steady.
Clinton’s expression softened with sympathy.
"What about Octavia? Where’s her mother?"
"She saw when Octavia was brought in," he replied. "After they examined her, Patricia went to speak with the doctor to find out why she was still unconscious."
"And what did the doctor say?" I asked, my gaze drifting to Octavia’s still form.
"She hasn’t returned with the news yet, but my guess is that Octavia was drugged," Clinton said quietly.
I walked over to the bed and perched on the edge, gently taking her hand in mine. Her skin felt cool, fragile. "She has gone through so much... all because of ," I mumbled, the guilt heavy in my chest.
"I can’t lie," Clinton said from behind . "It is your fault."
I turned sharply, glaring at him. "I’m having a hard ti right now, Harrington. My grandfather might die from the injury he sustained, and Octavia is distressed and has gone through hell because of . The least you can do is not bla right now."
"It’s fine," Clinton sighed, raising his hands slightly. "I pray your grandfather makes it. Whoever did that to him—"
"Will perish," I finished for him, my voice low and venomous.
"Do you know who did it?" Clinton asked.
"My secretary’s accomplice. That’s all I know right now," I replied, still staring at Octavia’s peaceful but unnaturally still face.
"So the kidnapper who took both and Octavia was your secretary all along," Clinton said, piecing it together.
"I should have seen the signs," I scoffed bitterly. "The bastard."
"He’s responsible for what happened to your grandfather," Clinton added.
"And now he’s fled with the original Flemington estate deed," I said, anger flaring again.
"He fled, but he didn’t get the file," Clinton corrected.
"What do you an he didn’t get the file?" I frowned, turning to face him fully.
"It ans I got it, Flemington," he told . "I ripped it from his grip when he fled with the person who shot your grandfather."
"And where is it now?" I asked.
"In my car."
I stared at him for a long mont, the weight of everything pressing down on . "I can’t believe I’m saying this... but thank you."
"I didn’t do it for you," Clinton replied quietly. "I did it for your grandfather. He seed like a decent man... the way he stepped in front of that bullet for you was heroic."
I nodded slowly, the gesture heavy with exhaustion and gratitude. "Regardless... thank you."
Just then, the door opened and Patricia walked in, her face solemn and drained. She looked like she had aged ten years in the last few hours.
"Mrs. Herman," I began.
"Octavia is here," I said softly, her eyes imdiately going to her daughter. "I told you I would handle it," I reminded her gently.
"Thank you, Franklin," she whispered, patting my shoulder before moving to sit on the other side of the bed. She took Octavia’s hand and simply stared at her, as if willing her to wake up.
"You’re welco," I said. "What did the doctor say?"
"He said she was drugged—propofol, to be exact. It should wear off between now and the next few hours. After she wakes, they’ll run so tests," Patricia explained, her voice trembling slightly.
"That’s good news. I’ll increase security for her imdiately," I promised.
"Who did this to her?" Patricia asked, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
"You don’t need to know, Mrs. Her—"
"I need to know, Franklin," she cut in, her voice rising with quiet fury. "I need to know the son of a bitch who kidnapped my daughter."
"Flemington," Clinton called from across the room. "Maybe it’s ti to tell her."
"Maybe it’s ti for you to butt out and mind your own business," I snapped at him.
"Okay, fine," he muttered, raising his hands.
I turned back to Patricia. "Mrs. Herman, I need you to trust . Telling you who was behind Octavia’s kidnapping could put you in jeopardy, and I don’t want that."
"Why? Are you involved in so sort of cult or gang that you can’t tell what’s going on?" she asked, eyes wide with worry and frustration.
"I’m sorry, Mrs. Herman, I—"
"Your shirt," she interrupted suddenly, staring at my white shirt. Her finger pointed at the dark bloodstains that had soaked into the fabric—my grandfather’s blood. "Whose blood is that?"
"My grandfather’s," I replied quietly.
"Your grandfather’s?" She frowned, confusion and horror mixing on her face.
"He got shot," Clinton put in before I could stop him. "By the accomplice of the person who kidnapped your daughter."
I turned and glared at him. "Didn’t I tell you to butt out of our conversation?"
"I’m trying to help you release so of the tension by telling her part of the truth," Clinton said evenly. "I think she deserves to know what happened to your grandfather."
Patricia looked between us, her face devastated. "How... how is he?"
"We rushed him here. The doctors and nurses are still treating him in the ER," I told her.
She shook her head slowly, tears welling up again. "I’m so sorry to hear that, Franklin."
I shrugged, the gesture weak.
"But why is all this happening to us? What is going on, Franklin? Do we have an enemy I should be aware of?"
"I don’t know what to say to you except this: I will handle what is going on. You don’t need to know the details. I don’t want to jeopardize your life by telling you—it’s too risky."
"If it’s too risky, then we need to involve the police," she argued. "Isn’t that the right thing to do?"
"It’s not," I said firmly. "Involving them right now would only make things worse. All you need to know is that we are on it. Maybe the ti to call the police will co, but for now, we keep our heads low."
Patricia nodded slowly, though the fear in her eyes remained. "If that is the case... okay. Just know what you’re doing, Franklin."
She turned back to Octavia, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently holding her daughter’s hand, staring at her with a mother’s quiet desperation.
"I’ll be right back," I said, needing air.
I left the ward and headed toward the ER. When I reached the waiting area, I finally sat down, covering my face with my hands. A few minutes later, I heard soone clear their throat. I looked up to see Clinton standing there, holding out the file.
I stood and took it from him slowly. "Thank you."
"Like I said, I did it for your grandfather," he replied. "Especially after I saw the heroic thing he did to save you."
I nodded, the gesture heavy with exhaustion. Just then, the ER doors opened and the doctor erged, still dressed in scrubs. He slowly removed his surgical mask as he approached .
"Doctor," I said, my voice tight.
"You’re the patient’s grandson?" he clarified.
"Yes," I nodded.
"Okay," the doctor sighed heavily—a sound that sent ice through my veins. "Your grandfather almost died."
The words hit like a physical blow. My knees nearly buckled as I stared at him in horror, waiting for the rest.
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