Chapter 102
Jonathan emerged first, followed by Paul on a gurney, wheeled out by medical staff. Reginald rushed forward. "Mr. Walsh, how's my father?"
"Grandpa!" Kayla cried.
"Paul," someone whispered.
Marissa and the other Vanderbilts crowded close, straining for a glimpse.
"Everyone, back! Give him some air," Jonathan warned, then addressed Reginald. "Don't worry. Paul pulled through."
They all looked at Paul. Though unconscious, his complexion had dramatically improved, a healthy flush replacing the sickly pallor. He looked like he was merely napping.
Reginald’s legs buckled, the tension draining from him. Someone caught his arm. The Vanderbilts exhaled, the collective breath they’d been holding finally released. Only Marissa tasted bitterness. A part of her had wanted Paul to die; it would have painted Paisley as the ultimate villain. But, of course, things never went her way.
"Mr. Walsh, where's Paisley?" Dominick demanded, staring at the operating room doors. "Everyone else is out."
Jonathan, who knew Dominick was Paisley's ex-husband, scowled. "Paisley's exhausted. She's resting inside."
Dominick started toward the operating room, but Jonathan blocked him. "Where do you think you're going? You can't just walk in."
Paisley strolled out then, nibbling a stale pastry, deep in conversation with Charles, who hung on her every word like a rapt student.
"Don't forget to practice," Paisley instructed. "If you get stuck, ask me."
"Yes! I promise I won't bug you too much, Ms. Sutton," Charles grinned sheepishly.
Paisley rolled her eyes. "Like you don't already."
"Heh," Charles mumbled, ducking his head.
Paisley returned to her pastry, ravenous. "And take your medicine. You're not getting any younger, and your health comes first. Stop taking every job."
"I'm taking it, Ms. Sutton! See?" Charles thumped his chest proudly.
Paisley ignored him and walked into the waiting room. The Vanderbilts’ expressions had shifted dramatically. The housewife they knew four years ago was gone, replaced by someone utterly transformed.
After a moment, Reginald used her old nickname. "Paisley, is my father okay?"
Paisley’s voice was soft, her face etched with exhaustion. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. "Mr. Paul Vanderbilt is stable…for now," she said.
Reginald tensed. The formal address was deliberate, a distancing tactic.
"Stable for now?" Reginald pressed. "What do you mean?"
Paisley took a bite of her pastry, struggling to swallow. A hand appeared, offering a bottle of water. "Here," Dominick said softly.
Paisley accepted it, noting the open cap. Since when did this jerk get so thoughtful? she mused.
"Come on, Paisy, tell us," Reginald urged.
"Let her drink first," Dominick intervened, noticing her struggle.
Reginald saw Paisley’s pained expression; something was caught in her throat. He waited.
Paisley drank, feeling everyone's gaze. The water soothed her throat. Clearing it, she continued, "Mr. Paul Vanderbilt’s vital signs are stable, but we're not out of the woods yet. Tonight is crucial. If he makes it through, he'll wake up tomorrow."
Anxiety returned to the Vanderbilts.
"Don't worry," Paisley reassured them. "I'll stay tonight. I'll make sure Mr. Paul Vanderbilt is safe."
Relief washed over the Vanderbilts.
"Thank you, Paisy," Reginald said, his gratitude genuine.
Paisley shrugged. "Don't thank me. Thank him." She was only cleaning up Charles' mess, it just happened to involve the Vanderbilts and Paul. Any other Vanderbilt, and she’d have walked away.
Reginald chuckled awkwardly, watching Dominick with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. Dominick’s eyes hadn't left Paisley. Too bad she was cutting ties with the Vanderbilts. Regret gnawed at Reginald. If he’d known Paisley's capabilities, he would have stopped the divorce.
At Sullivan Villa, Gregory called Christina and Brittany. "Got intel. Mr. Paul Vanderbilt's hospitalized."
Christina looked bewildered. "Okay…and?"
Gregory shot her an exasperated look. "Tomorrow morning, we visit him as a family. We'll pick up gifts on the way."