Chapter 407 Confession By The Bed

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    Chapter 407 Confession By The Bed

    Julius hovered over her, gaze tender as he bent to press a kiss to her brow.

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    At thest heartbeat, his lips stalled a breath apart. To linger would only deepen the ache he could no longer bear.

    His lips parted as he whispered, “Quinn, it turns out I never regretted loving you.”

    He straightened, turned, and slipped toward the corridor, unaware that the woman on the bed had fought her way to the thinnest sliver of sight.

    Through the haze, Quinn watched his outline blur against the bright doorway.

    She tried to call him back, but fire licked her throat, and no sound emerged.

    iHe /isaid ihe’d /iigive /iime /iianything/i. iAll /iI iwant /iiis /iifor /iihim /iito /iistay/ii. /iiDon’t /iigo/ii! /iiJulius /iiWhitethorn/i, iplease don’t /ileavei! /i

    Inside her fading consciousness, Quinn screamed without sound, reaching toward the receding silhouette. Soft hospital light smeared around its outline, then nothing–the corridor, the world, every hope folded into darkness as her eyelids won the battle and she copsed once more into unconsciousness.

    Outside the intensive–care unit, fluorescent tubes hummed over tile scrubbed too clean to ever feel human. Fabian stepped up beside Julius, his suit still singed at the cuff, voice pitched low. “Mr. Whitethorn, would you really rather not stay a couple more days? The doctors say you need rest.”

    Julius barely shifted his weight, shoulders squared as if steel tes held them there. “No,” he answered, every consonant clipped as though he had carved the word from ice.

    Most of the blood that had soaked his shirt earlier came from shallow gashes–messy, dramatic, inconsequential.

    A few ribs were cracked, nothing more.

    He kept reying the cave–in in his head: jagged concrete, sparks, the roar of me, and his own body arching over Quinn’s as the debris rained down. If she had been the one to catch those shards, the surgeons would still be stitching her together–or worse.

    Without looking at Fabian, Julius spoke again, voice now edged with frost. “Where is Joaquin?”

    Fabian consulted the glowing tablet in his palm, throat bobbing once. “We haven’t located him

    Chapter 407 Confession By The Bed

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    yet, but everyone else involved in the fire and the st is in custody.”

    He left the sentence hanging, aware Julius never cared for excuses, only instructions.

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    The corners of Julius‘ mouth didn’t move, yet the hallway seemed to shrink. “Rough them up first. Then dump what’s left of them at Yolham Police Station. I want those cells to be their coffins.”

    Fabian nodded, already picturing the bloody detours that order required. Those men had chosen Joaquin’s side and nearly killed Quinn. Whatever waited for them now would be justice tinted crimson.

    Julius‘ rage, Fabian thought, was both expected and terrifying.

    Julius pivoted, pain ring behind his ribs, but his eyes stayed lethal. “Find Joaquin. Anyone who brings him in–dead or alive–earns one billion from the Whitethorn family.”

    Fabian’s mind stalled, the number echoing like a gunshot.

    For years, the feud between father and son had simmered, but it always stopped at imprisonment, never execution. The words dead or alive rewrote every old boundary.

    “A reshuffle of the Whitethorn empire wasing, violent and absolute.

    Is iall /ithis ibecause /iiof /iiQuinn/ii? /i

    Fabian realized, with a chill, that even after the breakup, her ce in Julius‘ heart had only grown, stretching beyond anything he had once imagined.

    After a long silence, he cleared his throat. “What about Serena Fane? How do you want to handle her?”

    Julius watched the elevator numbers glow, mind already elsewhere. “When Quinn wakes, give her everything we’ve uncovered. Serena’s fate will be hers to decide.”

    Fabian inclined his head. “Yes, Mr. Whitethorn.”

    Julius paused in the fluorescent–lit corridor, shoulders rising and falling with a breath he refused to release. He angled his head, stealing onest look at the door that had sealed itself between them. Finally, silence won. He turned on his heel and let the hallway swallow him whole.

    When Quinn eventually surfaced from another indeterminate stretch of darkness, the first images to assemble were her brother Rowan and Laura standing guard beside her bed.

    Chapter 407 Confession By The Bed

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    Laura’s eyes went wide; the phone she had been clutching slid from her ck fingers and ttered across the tiles.

    Sheunched herself forward, nearly tripping over the bedrail. “Quinnie, you–you’re awake? Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

    Quinn’s throat burned like cinders. “Laura…” The name emerged as a parchment–thin whisper, yet she spent every scrap of strength just to shape that fragile note.

    “You’re really awake! I’ll fetch the doctors right now.” In her panic, Laura forgot the call button entirely and tore out of the room in a blur of teal scrubs and hope.

    Leander remained behind, quieter than the machines humming above Quinn’s head. He leaned in, eyes soft. “You finally woke up,” he murmured, voice barely louder than the monitors. “I’ve been waiting for you, and our uncle is waiting too.”

    The headline word lodged in Quinn’s chest. “Uncle?” she echoed, confusion threading through

    the rasp.

    Leander smiled, gentle as dawn. “Yes, our mother’s older brother. Quinn, we have more family than you ever knew.”

    The revtion left Quinn adrift, mind flickering like film caught between frames.

    Their grandfather, grandmother, and father had once scoured every corner, begging for a lead that might guide her mother home to her blood.

    Years passed, hope yellowed, and still no trace emerged.

    Why, then, did the missing pieces suddenly fall into ce tonight?

    Our uncle? Is ihe /iireally /iiour /iimother’s /iibrother/ii? /i

    Just then, the door groaned open, slicing through her reverie like a scalpel.

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