CHAPTER 256: SHARP ENOUGH TO FEEL

The medics worked with a panicked efficiency born of long experience with adrenaline-fueled executives. They strapped a new dressing tightly around my arm, the blood-soaked gauze a stark contrast to my pale skin. A fresh IV bag was hung, its clear fluid a silent promise of temporary stability. I felt the sharp prick, the antiseptic cold, but my focus remained locked on the future, a terrifying, uncertain blur.

"Sir, we need to get you onto a stretcher," one of them urged, his voice tight. "You’ve lost a significant amount of blood. Internal bleeding is still a concern."

"I’ll walk," I snarled, pushing myself up again, ignoring the fresh wave of nausea. My legs wobbled. Gray was instantly at my side, his arm slipping under mine, taking some of my weight. Cameron moved to the other, a solid anchor. Between them, I felt like a puppet whose strings were taut with agony.

"Easy, Adrien," Cameron muttered, his own face grim. "We’ll get you there."

The walk out of the makeshift medical bay was a blur of pain and fragmented images: frantic staff, flashing emergency lights, the biting cold of the night air hitting my feverish skin. Each step sent a jolt through my torso, a white-hot spear of agony that made my teeth clench. My vision swam. I could feel the fresh blood seeping through the new bandages on my side, a sinister warmth. But the thought of Isabella, of my mother, lying broken and possibly dying, was a far greater torment.

The roaring jet engine cut through the night, a hungry beast waiting to devour the distance. Its dark silhouette loomed against the stars, the ramp already lowered. Gray half-carried, half-dragged me up, Cameron a sturdy presence behind us. Once inside, the enclosed space seemed to intensify the sterile smell of the medical equipment already lining the cabin.

"Get me comms," I rasped, collapsing into the nearest seat. The medical bed beside it might as well have been invisible. I wasn’t here to rest.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the armrest, knuckles pale against the dried blood.

"I want every available satellite feed," I said slowly, each word a struggle against the pain. "Every traffic camera on the Southbridge expressway. Every building between here and the city."

I paused, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. "Now."

Cameron didn’t hesitate. He was already at the terminal, fingers flying across the keys. "It’s being done, Adrien. The moment we get airborne, we’ll have a clear line." He shot a worried glance at Gray, who was securing my seatbelt, his movements efficient.

"Sir, an analgesic, please," one of the medics said, holding out a syringe. "It will help with the pain, allow you to think clearer."

I snatched it, not to inject, but to hold it, a promise of temporary oblivion I wouldn’t allow myself. "No. I need to feel this. It keeps me sharp."

The jet shuddered, vibrations rumbling through the floor. The cabin lights dimmed, then brightened as the engines spooled up. We were moving.

My knuckles were white where I gripped the armrest. My mind was a whirlwind of rage, fear, and a terrifying clarity. They’d tried to bankrupt me, smear my wife’s name, and remove me from my company. Now they had escalated. They had touched my family. And for that, there would be no forgiveness.

The flight back felt like an eternity.

Every second the jet cut through the clouds, my mind clawed through the possibilities—what state she was in, if my mother was alive.

My pulse hammered in my chest—each beat a painful reminder that the woman I loved, and my mother, were fighting for their lives. I couldn’t focus on anything else. Not the way my body still screamed from the wounds, not the searing pain in my shoulder and abdomen, or the nagging thoughts that kept crawling back to me.

When the jet landed two hours later, the air on the tarmac was heavy and dry. Cars were already waiting for us. Security teams were lined up along the tarmac, men in suits and military-grade gear silently moving in perfect coordination. Cameron sat beside me in a damn wheelchair—his leg wrapped, jaw set tight. Even now, he refused to look weak. The man had been shot, and still managed to smirk when he caught me looking.

"Don’t say it," he muttered.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My chest was already too full of what waited ahead.

A senior officer met us halfway down the stairs, his voice steady but clipped. "Mr. Walton, we’ve secured your wife’s father and brother. They’re in a safe location now. Your sister is under protection at her school—just in case they attempt anything there."

I nodded, barely processing the words. My attention snapped to the next detail—the hospital.

"Your mother and wife were brought to St. Reaves Hospital." the officer continued. "Dr. Kassel is in the surgery room now. She’s still working on Isabella."

My expression didn’t shift, but my pulse spiked once in my jaw.

"Drive."

****

The SUV sped through the city, sirens wailing, cutting through traffic like a hot knife through butter. I sat rigid in the back, the pain in my body a dull throb compared to the searing agony in my chest. Cameron was beside me, pale but resolute, his injured leg stretched out. Gray, still looking grim, manned the front passenger seat, keeping an eye on my every twitch. The world outside was a blur of lights and shadows, but my mind was stuck on a single, horrifying loop: Isabella, my mother, an ambush, a severe impact.

We pulled up to St. Reaves with a screech of tires. The hospital entrance was already a circus. Police cruisers, news vans with their satellite dishes raised like praying mantises, and a swarm of reporters pressed against a flimsy barricade, cameras flashing. My security detail, a wall of muscle and grim faces, moved instantly, forming a wedge as I stepped out, ignoring the shouts and questions.

My body protested every movement; blood soaked through my stitches, but I didn’t care.

Inside, corridors cleared at my approach. Gray followed close behind, left eye patched from the blast back at the compound. While cam tried to keep up with the electric wheelchair.

Dr. Kassel appeared at the far end, surgical cap still on, hands trembling slightly as she pulled off her gloves.

"Mr. Walton," she began, voice soft.

"Report."

"Your mother’s condition is... critical. She suffered a traumatic head injury during the accident, several broken ribs, and a fractured arm. She shielded Miss Miller when the vehicle overturned. She’s... alive, but in a vegetative state for now. We’re doing everything we can to stabilize her."

I didn’t react—just stared past her. The words—mother, vegetative—landed like a hand closing over my throat. For a second the world narrowed to a tunnel of sound.

"And Isabella?"

Dr. Kassel hesitated. Her eyes dropped for a moment, and that silence stretched like a wire pulled taut.