3rd person POV
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beeping of the machines. Vivian lay unconscious on the bed, her face pale, a white bandage covering the wound on her head. Max stood at the edge of the room, his hands in fists, watching as the doctors and nurses worked quickly to stabilize her.
“She’s stable for now,” The doctor said, checking her IV. “She needs rest and observation, but we’ve done all we can for the moment.”
Max barely heard the words. His gaze was locked on Vivian’s pale face, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The gash on her temple had been cleaned and stitched, but the sight of the stark white bandage against her hair sent a surge of guilt surging through him.
How had it come to this? He had promised himself that he would protect her, that nothing and no one would ever harm her. Yet here she was, lying helpless in a hospital bed, because he hadn’t been fast enough-because he hadn’t seen the threat standing right in front of him.
He raked a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room like a caged lion. His usual calm, composed demeanor was nowhere to be found. His mind was a storm, replaying the chaotic events of the night over and over again. Ruth’s words. Freya’s pleas. Vivian lifeless on the ground, blood staining her skin, all of it was a painful replay in his head.
” You don’t have to worry Mr Max, she’ll be fine” The doctor said the last words preparing to leave and Max nodded, his jaw tight. He wanted to say something, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him.
When the doctor and nurses left, Max moved closer to Vivian’s bed. He sat in the chair beside her and reached for her hand, holding it gently. Her fingers were cold, and it sent a sharp pang of guilt through him.
“I’m sorry, Vivian,” he said quietly. “I should’ve protected you. This shouldn’t have happened.”
For a while, he just sat there, staring at her face. She looked so fragile, and that made him angry. He was supposed to keep her safe, yet here she was, hurt because of something he hadn’t stopped.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He hesitated before pulling it out, but when he saw the message, his blood ran cold: “Your father has been shot. It’s critical.”
Max stared at the screen, his mind going blank. Then another message popped up: “He’s gone.”
“No,” Max whispered, shaking his head. His hand gripped the phone so hard it was a wonder it didn’t break.
He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His father-gone. The man who had built everything Max had. The man who had been both a mentor and, in his own way, a rival. Shot. Dead.
Max turned back to Vivian. He didn’t want to leave her. But he couldn’t stay.
“I’ll come back,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I promise.”
Without another word, he strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding.
By the time he reached the hospital’s entrance, his driver was already waiting. The sleek black car idled at the curb, and Max climbed in quickly.
“Take me home,” he said sharply. “Now.”
The car sped through the quiet streets. Max stared out the window, his thoughts racing. His father had many enemies-competitors, rivals, even people in his own circle who had reasons to hate him. But who would go this far? Who would dare?
His hands clenched into fists as possibilities ran through his mind. None of it made sense, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t just a random attack. It was deliberate.
When the car pulled up to the gates of the estate, Max didn’t wait for Ray, his bodyguard to open the door. He stepped out and strode toward the house, his mind focused on one thing-answers.
The estate was swarming with security. Guards stood at every corner, their faces grim. One of them approached Max as he entered the foyer.
“Sir, the police are inside,” the guard said quietly. “They want to speak with you.”
Max gave a curt nod and walked into the main room. A group of detectives stood near the fireplace, talking in low voices. When they saw Max, they turned to face him.
“Max Norman ” one of them said, stepping forward. “We’re very sorry for your loss. We’re investigating the matter, but it looks like a professional hit.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “Who did it?” he asked, his voice cold and sharp.
The detective hesitated. “We’re still working on that, sir. We don’t have any suspects yet, but we’ll-”
“That’s not good enough,” Max cut him off. “I want results. Whoever did this, I want their name. Do you understand me?”
The detective nodded, but Max could see the unease in his eyes.
Without waiting for more, Max turned and climbed the stairs to his father’s office in the mansion. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. The air was heavy, like the house itself was mourning.
When he got in, Max stepped inside and shut the door. The room smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, a reminder of his father’s presence. But now, the chair behind the desk was empty, and the silence was suffocating.
Max stood there for a moment, staring at the desk. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Grief threatened to overwhelm him, but he shoved it down.
There would be time to mourn later. For now, he needed answers. And he would stop at nothing to get them.
He took out his phone” Ray, where is my Father?
Max demanded.”
“He’s been taken to the mortuary,” The reply came but it sounded a bit suspicious. Everything was happening so swift and fast.
“Without my consent?” He asked in snicker of shock.
“Mrs Hannah and Daniel ran everything”
” I would like to run an autopsy, stop every process right now.” Max ordered.
“Yes boss”