93| Desperation

Back at the hospital, Evelyn rushed toward David, her face pale, hands trembling as she reached out to him.

"David, you have to stop him," she pleaded, her voice tight with urgency.

David frowned. "Stop who?"

"Ethan," she whispered, her voice unsteady. "He went to see his father. He thinks... he thinks Robert's behind this."

David's expression shifted as realization hit. His mind raced, piecing together the reason for her panic.

"Are you sure he isn't?" he asked, his voice low.

Evelyn shook her head, desperation flashing in her eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. But, David, you should have seen him. There was something in his eyes... something dark." She swallowed hard. "I don't know what he's going to do."

David placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his grip firm. "I'll go to him, Evelyn. Take a breath. I'll get to him before he does something he'll regret."

He turned to leave, but Evelyn's voice stopped him.

"Please..." Her voice cracked. "Tell me Sophie's alright?"

David's stomach twisted. He dropped his gaze, exhaling sharply before shaking his head. The weight of the truth pressed down on him like lead.

"She's... she's in a coma," he said quietly, the words almost catching in his throat.

From behind them, Lily's voice came—soft, steady, but unwavering.

"David, go. I'll take care of Evelyn. You have to reach Ethan."

David hesitated only a second before nodding. Then, without another word, he turned and sprinted out of the hospital, his heart pounding as he pulled out his phone.

He dialed Ethan's number, praying he'd reach him before it was too late.

******

Meanwhile, Ethan arrived at the Sinclair estate, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

He hadn't felt this empty since his last fight with his father—the day he was convinced he had lost himself.

But back then, Sophie was just a drive away.

Now, she was still a drive away. But she was asleep, hurt, hooked up to machines.

Each step he took echoed through the grand but lifeless corridors, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

All he felt was anger.

A pure, simmering rage.

He wanted to destroy everything.

He wanted to make his father pay.

Finally, he reached his father's office—the place where countless lectures had been drilled into him, where his every move had been scrutinized and measured.

He shoved open the heavy doors, ready for war.

But the second his eyes landed on his father—his rage faltered.

No.

It didn't just falter.

It vanished—like it had never been there. Like it hadn't been fueling him since the moment he got in the car.

His father sat slouched in a wheelchair, a frail, withered version of the man who had once towered over him. His presence—once suffocating—was barely there.

This wasn't Robert Sinclair.

Who was this man who could barely sit up?

Robert, always one to exploit a moment of hesitation, sneered. His voice, though weaker than Ethan remembered, still dripped with that cutting cruelty.

"Still the weak man you turned out to be?" His lip curled. "Where's that righteous fury you came in with? Or did you come here to cry about your feelings again?"

Ethan let out a cold, humorless laugh. He shoved his hands into his pockets, tilting his head.

"Why do you look like this, old man?" His voice was sharp. Cold. Daring. "It almost makes me pity you."

The jab hit. He saw it—a flicker of anger, a flash of something ugly in Robert's eyes.

"What did you come here for?" Robert bit back, but his usual venom lacked its edge. "I saw your mother rush out earlier. Did you think I caused... whatever happened to your wife?"

His smirk deepened, taunting.

Ethan's entire body tensed. His blood boiled.

"You're disgusting." The words burned coming out. "Did you do it?" His fists clenched. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did. You've always been a bitter, pathetic old man."

"Pathetic?" Robert's expression twisted, his voice laced with fury. "You, my son, are the true disappointment."

Ethan took a slow step forward, towering over him. His voice was like ice.

"I don't care about your opinions anymore." His words were measured, but the storm inside him raged. "Answer the question.

Did you try to kill my wife? My child?"

Robert's smirk vanished.

For the first time since Ethan had walked in, his father looked shaken.

His lips parted slightly, like he wasn't sure he'd heard right. "Child?"

Ethan's expression remained stone-cold.

"That's right," he said, voice thick with contempt. "Are you happy now? You almost killed your own daughter-in-law—and your future grandchild."

Robert paled.

His fingers twitched against the armrests of his wheelchair. His usual air of untouchable arrogance was gone.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its bite. Instead, there was something else there—something Ethan had never heard before.

Regret.

"Look..." Robert exhaled slowly. "I went too far last time." His voice was quieter, almost like admitting it pained him.

Ethan's chest tightened.

He couldn't breathe.

Had he really just heard that? Had Robert Sinclair—the man who had ruled his life with an iron fist—actually admitted fault?

But then—

Robert kept talking.

"But I never meant for them to actually harm her." His voice dropped, muttered almost to himself. "Those idiots... they weren't supposed to lay a hand on her. I only wanted to scare her, Ethan. I thought she'd leave you, and maybe then you'd—"

Ethan's stomach turned.

"Do you even hear yourself?" His voice rose in disgust. "You thought threatening her would make her leave? And that I'd what—come crawling back to you?" His hands shook with rage. "You're worse than I thought."

Robert straightened as much as he could in his chair. "I would never harm a Sinclair," he shot back, defensive. "I was only trying to—"

Ethan barked out a bitter laugh.

"You mean like the damn loan sharks?" His voice was sharp, filled with barely-contained fury. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Robert flinched.

"I didn't say I was completely innocent." His jaw clenched. "But I would never harm a Sinclair." He repeated it like it meant something.

A heavy silence fell between them, stretching unbearably as they both processed the weight of those words.

Ethan stared at his father, and he hated that he realized Robert wasn't lying.

He didn't know why, but some part of him had wanted Robert to be responsible. Maybe because that would have made things simple.

Maybe because hating him would always be easier than understanding him. Because there was nothing to understand—nothing that would ever make sense of the man Robert Sinclair had chosen to be.

But this time?

Robert wasn't behind it.

Ethan exhaled sharply, his voice rough. "Then tell me... why did you let me have the company?"

Because it didn't make sense. There was no way Robert had surrendered everything just because Ethan had hit him. The man had spent his entire life building his empire—he wouldn't just let it go.

Robert looked away, his pride visibly dented.

"Your mother," he muttered after a long pause. "She threatened to divorce me. She agreed to stay only if I handed over my shares to you." His lips pressed into a thin line. "On the condition that she'd stay with me until I die."

Ethan's jaw locked. A sharp, bitter feeling curled in his chest.

"You're... dying?"

Robert didn't answer. He didn't have to. His gaze remained fixed on the wall, his silence the only confirmation Ethan needed.

Ethan let out a slow breath, his hands pressing against his knees as he slumped down into the chair across from his father.

"God, I really pity you," he said softly, shaking his head.

He still hated him. That would never change. But Robert wasn't his enemy this time.

And right now, the real enemy was still out there.

Robert shifted slightly, his spine straightening. When he spoke again, his voice had a hint of its old steel.

"I'll have my people look into who caused this," he said, almost reluctantly. "It won't change what I've done. But I can still help."

Ethan wanted to refuse.

Wanted to tell him to stay out of it, to shove his money, his power, and his guilty conscience somewhere else.

But finding out who had done this to Sophie was more important than pride.

And he already knew where to start.

Only one name stood out.

Damon Blackwell.

He clenched his fists, cursing himself for ignoring Claire's warning, for not seeing the threat when it was right in front of him.

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