Chapter 389 Trouble at the Hotel: I'm Brandon's Good Friend!
Felix had spent his entire life carrying the weight of his family and children on his shoulders. Yet, in what might be his final days, his greatest concern was still for them.
Catherine stared at the medical chart in her hands, the heaviness in her chest pressing like a stone. Surgery could buy him more time—perhaps—but Felix refused to accept a future where his body was tethered to tubes and machines.
For him, the thought of drifting in and out of consciousness, clinging to life in a fog, was unbearable.
"I tried to talk him into it," Gavin said with a weary sigh. "If he stayed in the hospital, if you were the one to operate, there might be a chance. But Mr. Howard wouldn't hear of it."
Catherine felt a sting at the back of her eyes. She knew exactly why. Felix didn't want his illness to cast a shadow over the family's joy, didn't want her and Alexander's wedding to be interrupted by grief. This was supposed to be a season of celebration, not hospital visits.
"Grandfather's odds of surviving the surgery are thirty percent at best," she said quietly. "And even then, he might never regain full clarity. He could spend the rest of his days asleep, needing constant care."
"Exactly," Gavin agreed. "Mr. Howard refuses to become that man."
The proud, silver-haired patriarch wanted to leave this world standing tall.
Marcus called. He listened as Catherine explained the situation. On the other end, silence stretched for a long, heavy beat before Marcus finally exhaled.
"At his age, maybe it's a mercy. Don't let it break you."
"I'll be here at the hospital these next few days," she promised. "Grandfather, take care of yourself too."
They were old friends—half a lifetime—and Marcus was surely grieving in his own quiet way.
"I know," he said, and hung up.
Marcus sat in his rocking chair, unmoving, a chess piece locked between his fingers. He whispered into the empty air, "Felix, I'll let you take that move back. Just come home."
Across from him, the seat was empty. Only a brittle sycamore leaf had fallen where his opponent should have been.
The Windsor Group Hotel gleamed under its grand chandeliers, the marble floors reflecting every light.
A woman in high heels and oversized sunglasses strode into the lobby, her arm linked possessively through that of a man at least twenty years her senior. Her expression radiated disdain.
"Where's your manager? Get your manager out here."
The receptionist kept her tone polite. "I'm sorry, our manager isn't available at the moment. May I ask what this is regarding?"
"Then get Faye. She has enough pull here, doesn't she?"
Uncertain, the receptionist picked up the phone and called Faye down.
When Faye stepped into the lobby, she froze. "Lyra? What on earth—?"
The man at Lyra's side was pushing fifty, maybe older, and a child trailed close behind them. The resemblance between the boy and the man was so exact it was almost comical—there was no doubt they were father and son.
Faye's brows lifted. So now mistresses brought their patron's children out in public too?
Lyra removed her sunglasses, clinging to the man's thick arm with practiced intimacy. "Darling, this is Faye, the friend I told you about."
The man's eyes crawled over Faye, slick and heavy. "This is your friend? Pretty enough, I'll give her that."
His hand started to lift toward her—but a small blade whistled out of nowhere, grazing the back of his hand. A thin line of blood welled instantly.
"Fuck!" he barked, clutching his hand. The sharp click of heels echoed across the marble, each step carrying a chill.
Catherine's voice was calm, almost bored. "Call the police."
"You want to call the police? I should be calling them! Do you have any idea who I am? No one in Imperia City has ever dared lay a hand on me!"
"Congratulations," Catherine said flatly. "Now someone has."
The man had been drunk on Lyra's flattery for weeks, puffed up with his own delusions of influence. He genuinely believed the lies he told himself—that he was a power player in Imperia City's elite circles.
Faye, who knew Lyra too well, guessed they'd probably sold each other the same fantasy. Two con artists, each convinced the other was rich.
Catherine tilted her head. "Before you cause a scene, did you bother to check whose hotel this is?"
The massive Windsor Group logo was mounted right outside. Anyone with eyes could see it.
The man lifted his triple chin with pompous pride. "I'm good friends with Brandon Windsor himself. You think I can't walk into a Windsor hotel?"
Friends with Brandon? Catherine's brow arched. Since when did her father have friends she didn't know about?
Seeing her silence, he mistook it for intimidation and smirked. "You're the manager here? Fine. I'll make it easy for you. Upgrade me to the VIP suite, pay me three million dollars, and I'll let this slide. Otherwise, when my buddy Brandon hears about this, you'll regret it."
"Three million's nothing," he added with a laugh. "Think of it as buying me supper."
Catherine let the pause stretch. She hadn't planned to come to the hotel tonight—only did so because the Galactic Aurora Collective was visiting Imperia City and would be staying here. She hadn't expected to walk straight into this circus.
"Three million?" she said at last. "That's almost cute. I've met pickpockets with bigger appetites."
Faye nodded. "Exactly. Mr. Windsor, I'll call the police now."
The man's face twisted. "Are you deaf? Calling the cops won't help you! I'm the victim here! Do you want to go to prison?"
Faye's lip curled. "Our lobby cameras cover every inch of this place. You were harassing guests. And you have no proof who nicked your hand. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe God's just tired of you."
The man's eyes flickered. No one had seen where the blade had come from.
"You think that scares me? I'll call Brandon right now and see who's begging who."
Catherine's gaze was ice. "Go ahead."
Lyra pressed herself against him. "Mr. Vaughan, aren't you close with Mr. Windsor? Have him teach them a lesson."
Faye's look at Lyra was pure disbelief. She knew Brandon was Catherine's father. Why would she egg this idiot on?
She didn't know Vaughan—Rex Vaughan—had made his fortune in pyramid schemes. Lyra had swallowed his every word, convinced he was richer than the Windsors themselves.
Rex sneered at Catherine's calm. "If I make the call, it's your last chance to apologize."
Catherine flexed her fingers. A staff member rolled over a chair and set a coffee at her elbow.
"Call," she said. "Call as many as you like. If you don't, I will."
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
