Chapter 146

~ Franklin ~

We finally reached the hospital, tires screeching as Clinton Harrington slammed the brakes in the emergency entrance. I barely waited for the car to stop before I was out, shouting for help. Clinton raced ahead, waving down the first nurses he saw.

"My Grandfather was shot! Hurry! He’s losing blood, please do something!" My voice came out raw, broken, nothing like the controlled tone I usually carried in boardrooms.

The nurses moved fast. They pulled my grandfather from my arms with practiced care and placed him onto a gurney. His face was ghostly pale, his breathing shallow and ragged. I turned quickly to Octavia, still unconscious in the back seat.

"Don’t worry, I’ll stay with her," Clinton said, already lifting her carefully.

"Harrington—"

"It’s fine. Go with your grandfather," he insisted.

I hesitated for half a second, then nodded and rushed after the team wheeling my grandfather inside. They moved at a near run down the brightly lit hallway, voices overlapping in urgent medical shorthand.

"BP is dropping fast—get him into the ER now!" the doctor barked as soon as he saw us.

The nurses obeyed instantly. I tried to follow them through the swinging doors, but strong hands held me back.

"No—wait—" I protested, straining to see past them.

"Sir, let us do our job," one of the nurses said firmly, her grip steady but kind.

"No, I’m not leaving him! He’s my grandfather!" I yelled, rising on my toes to catch a glimpse. For one horrifying second, I saw his face—lifeless, pale, drained of color.

"We need to save his life, sir. Please stay back," she urged as the doors closed in front of me with a final, heavy click.

I stood there, frozen, pressing my ear against the cold metal. Muffled voices filtered through:

"Gunshot wound to the abdomen—possible internal bleeding!"

"Prep the OR now!"

"Get the trauma team in here!" 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Everything was happening too fast. Too clinical. Too detached. Nurses rushed in and out, pushing equipment, their faces set with grim focus. I wasn’t allowed inside. That helplessness clawed at me more than anything.

I looked down at my hands. They were covered in blood—my grandfather’s blood. It had soaked into my shirt, dark stains spreading across the fabric like a permanent accusation I could never wash away.

Stumbling into the nearest bathroom, I turned on the faucet full blast. Water rushed over my skin, but it wasn’t enough. I scrubbed harder, nails digging into my palms, trying to erase the evidence of what had just happened.

"Come off... fucking come off," I muttered, voice shaking.

It wouldn’t. No matter how red and raw my hands became, I could still feel it—the warmth, the stickiness, the weight of that moment when he stepped in front of me and took the bullet meant for me. My hands trembled under the scalding water, and I had to grip the edge of the sink to steady myself. The bathroom tile was cold against my forehead as I leaned forward, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at my throat. In the mirror, I could see the ghost of my reflection—haunted eyes, jaw clenched so tight it ached. This wasn’t me. I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t lose control. But standing here, drowning in his blood, I couldn’t recognize the broken man staring back at me.

I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The man looking back was broken, haunted, terrified. I barely recognized him.

When I finally walked out, the waiting room felt too quiet, too still. I sat down, then stood up again almost immediately. I couldn’t stay still. My mind wouldn’t let me. Every worst-case scenario played on repeat.

What in his right mind would make him do that? Taking a bullet for me? Why would he step in front of me? That bullet had been meant for me, not him. The image wouldn’t leave me—the sudden jerk of his body, the shock in his eyes as he realized what had happened. He’d stepped in front of me without hesitation, without thinking. As if my life was worth more than his. As if he’d do it again given the choice. The weight of that sacrifice pressed down on me, suffocating.

"Fuck..." I whispered sharply, running both hands through my hair.

He had saved me. My grandfather had saved me, and now he might die because of it.

I began pacing again, back and forth, each step heavier than the last. The fluorescent lights overhead felt oppressive, casting everything in a sickly white glow. Around me, the waiting room existed in some kind of suspended animation—other families hunched in chairs, a television playing silently, the occasional distant page over the intercom. But it all felt unreal, dreamlike. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not after everything he’d already survived, everything he’d already lost.

"I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve reacted faster," I mumbled to myself. The guilt twisted inside me like a knife. I was supposed to protect him, not the other way around. I was the one who’d gotten involved in all of this, who’d made enemies, who’d brought danger to his doorstep.

But I hadn’t. And now he was paying the price.

I stopped pacing, closed my eyes, and—for the first time in years—I prayed.

"Please God," I whispered, voice cracking. "Don’t take him from me. He’s all I have left. My parents are gone... and now I might lose him too. I can’t... I can’t do this without him. I just can’t."

The words came out broken, barely audible.

I opened my eyes slowly and stared at the closed ER doors in the distance. Waiting was driving me insane. Every second stretched into an eternity. My entire world depended on what was happening behind those doors, and all I could do was stand here—helpless, terrified, praying that the man who had raised me after my parents’ death would make it through the night.