Reginald stood in his opulent office, gazing out at the city skyline as he awaited Jovert's return. The silence was broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. The warm glow of the setting sun cast a golden light on the polished wood paneling, illuminating the room's lavish décor.
The knock on the door shattered the tranquility.
"Enter," Reginald commanded, his deep voice resonating through the room.
Jovert stepped inside, his eyes cast downward in respect. He approached Reginald, bowing slightly, his movements fluid and practiced.
"Sir."
Reginald walked behind his desk, settling into his leather chair with a subtle creak. The chair, adorned with intricate carvings, seemed to envelop him, emphasizing his authority.
"What's the doctor's report?" Reginald asked, his tone firm but controlled.
Jovert began, his voice measured and deliberate. "Doctor Thompson informed me that Ethan's condition is critical. The bullet wound to his lower shoulder caused significant damage, shattering his shoulder blade and grazing his spinal cord."
Reginald's expression remained impassive, a mask of calm concealing the turmoil brewing within.
"The spinal cord damage has resulted in incomplete quadriplegia," Jovert continued, his words precise and clinical. "Ethan has lost motor function in his legs and partial function in his arms. Physical therapy may help him regain some mobility, but it's uncertain."
Jovert paused, collecting his thoughts as he consulted the report.
"Additionally, Ethan suffers from significant memory loss due to the trauma and shock. His speech is severely impaired, affecting his brain's language centers. The doctor estimates it may take up to a year or more of intensive therapy for Ethan to regain speech."
Reginald's facade remained calm, but beneath the surface, his emotions churned. His eyes narrowed, the only hint of the storm brewing within.
"Doctor Thompson emphasized that Ethan requires around-the-clock care, including physical therapy, speech therapy, and psychological counseling," Jovert concluded, his voice softening.
Reginald's voice was even, betraying none of the turmoil within. "Get him discharged tomorrow and fly him overseas for intensive care. Also, get Marcus to bring in the cost breakdown."
Jovert bowed his head, his eyes never leaving the floor. "Yes, sir."
As Jovert departed, Reginald's composure shattered. He shot to his feet, scattering everything on his desk to the floor. Papers, pens, and glassware crashed downward, the sound echoing through the office like a cacophony of shattering dreams.
Reginald's hands, clenched into fists, dripped blood from the sharp edges of the shattered objects. His anger and rage boiled over, threatening to consume him. The once-immaculate office now lay in disarray, a testament to Reginald's inner turmoil.
The room seemed to darken, as if the shadows themselves were closing in on Reginald. His chest heaved, his breathing labored, as he struggled to contain the fury raging within.
For a moment, Reginald stood frozen, his world shattered by the weight of Ethan's condition. Then, with a swift motion, he swept the remaining objects off his desk, clearing a path for his pent-up emotions.
The sound of shattering glass and crunching wood filled the air, a symphony of destruction, as Reginald unleashed his wrath upon the room.
Reginald's rage slowly subsided, replaced by a hollow sense of despair. He sank into his chair, exhausted from the outburst, his body sagging under the weight of his emotions. His eyes dropped to the chaos surrounding him, the shattered remnants of his composure scattered across the floor like the fragments of his shattered dreams.
With a heavy sigh, Reginald reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating as memories flooded his mind. He wanted to call his ex-wife, Francesca – a name that still evoked a mix of emotions, from longing to regret.
Twenty years had passed since their divorce, yet the wounds still lingered, raw and unhealed. Their marriage had crumbled under the weight of Reginald's insatiable ambition, his relentless pursuit of power and wealth. Francesca had grown tired of being secondary to his business interests, a mere afterthought in his quest for dominance.
Reginald's grip on Ethan had been motivated by strategic calculation, not paternal love. He saw his son as a potential successor, a means to further expand his empire, to solidify his legacy. The thought sent a pang of guilt through Reginald's chest, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the phone still clutched in his hand.
Francesca had left, unable to bear the thought of raising their child in a world dominated by Reginald's ruthless pursuit of power and wealth. She had sought a life free from the suffocating grip of his ambition, a life where love and family came first.
Now, as Reginald stared at his phone, he wondered if Francesca would even answer. Did she still care about Ethan, or had she long since moved on, built a new life, free from the shadows of their past? The thought stung, but Reginald knew he had no right to expect otherwise.
His finger trembled as he hesitated, unsure if he was ready to confront the ghosts of his past. The screen remained dark, a silent witness to Reginald's inner turmoil. Memories of Francesca's laughter, her smile, and her tears swirled in his mind, a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost.
Reginald's eyes drifted to the city skyline outside his window, the twinkling lights a stark contrast to the darkness within him. He felt lost, uncertain of how to bridge the chasm between his past and present. The phone still clutched in his hand seemed to weigh heavier, a symbol of the choices he had made, the consequences he now faced.
As the silence stretched, Reginald's thoughts turned to Ethan, lying in the hospital, fighting for his future. A future Reginald had always envisioned as a extension of his own empire, but now seemed fragile, uncertain. The realization shook him, forcing him to confront the emptiness within.
With a deep breath, Reginald's gaze returned to the phone, his thumb still poised over the screen. Would he find solace in Francesca's voice, or would it only reopen old wounds? The moment hung, heavy with uncertainty, as Reginald wrestled with the decision to reach out to the woman he had once loved and lost.
Reginald summoned the courage to dial Francesca's number, his heart racing with anticipation. The phone rang silently, the tension building with each passing moment, like the quiet before a storm.
Twenty years of separation stretched between them like an endless chasm, a gaping void that seemed impossible to bridge. What would she think now? Would she even answer? The memories of their tumultuous past swirled in his mind, a bittersweet reminder of love and loss.
"Ciao?" [Hello?] Francesca said, her voice cautious, laced with a hint of wariness.
Reginald's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar tones. "Ciao," [Hello] he replied, his voice low and gravelly, barely above a whisper.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy with unspoken emotions.
"Chi è?" [Who is this?] Francesca asked, her tone guarded, her voice dripping with skepticism.
Reginald took a deep breath before responding, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. "Tuo figlio è malato. È molto malato." [Your son is ill. He is very ill.] He paused, collecting his thoughts.
"Devi venire a Eden City domani per il suo bene, non per il mio." [You need to come to Eden City tomorrow for his sake, not mine.] His words tumbled out in a rush, urgency etched in every syllable.
"Non lasciare che i miei errori passati ti impediscano di vedere tuo figlio." [Don't let my past mistakes stop you from seeing your son.] Reginald's voice cracked, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
"This might be the last time," he added, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
There was a pause, a moment of stunned silence, before Francesca's composure shattered.
"Ethan, mio bambino!" [Ethan, my baby!] she exclaimed, her voice cracking as she broke down in tears. The anguish in her cry was palpable, a raw, animalistic sound that tore at Reginald's heart.
"Cosa hai fatto?" [What have you done?] she accused, her tears turning to anger.
Reginald's guilt boiled over, threatening to consume him. "Mi dispiace." [I'm sorry] he pleaded, his voice barely audible.
"Fallo per il bene di tuo figlio." [Do it for your son's sake] he urged, his words laced with desperation.
Inwardly, he cursed himself. "I dragged Ethan into this," he thought, self-loathing etched on his face.
Francesca's voice cut through his thoughts, cold and resolute.
"Sarò lì domani a mezzogiorno." [I'll be there tomorrow at noon] she vowed.
"If anything happens to my sweetheart..." Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
"Ti ucciderò." [I'll kill you] she finished, her words dripping with venom.
The line went dead, leaving Reginald staring at the phone, his heart heavy with foreboding. The silence seemed oppressive, a physical weight that pressed upon his chest.
He knew he had stirred a tempest, one that would soon engulf him.
Meanwhile, Alexander, Alessia's elder brother, received the devastating news of Alessia's kidnapping. He was seated in his spacious office at the family company, immersed in reviewing financial reports and business strategies, when his secretary's urgent voice pierced the air.
"Sir, I have terrible news," she said, her eyes wide with concern, her voice trembling.
Alexander's gaze snapped up, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The soft glow of the desk lamp cast eerie shadows on his face as he set aside the files.
"What is it?" he demanded, his deep voice firm but laced with a hint of apprehension.
His secretary hesitated, her hands fidgeting. "Alessia... she's been kidnapped," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alexander's world crumbled around him. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, his breath knocked out of him. The room seemed to darken, the air thickening with an ominous presence.
With shaking hands, Alexander dialed the city police department's emergency number, his mind racing with thoughts of his sister's safety. The phone felt heavy in his hand, a tangible connection to the uncertain fate of his sibling.
"This is Alexander Thompson. My sister, Alessia, has been kidnapped," he barked into the phone, his voice low and menacing, commanding attention.
The officer on the other end assured him that a team would be dispatched immediately to investigate and search for Alessia. Alexander listened intently, his anger simmering, boiling over as the call ended.
He slammed his fist onto the desk, the sound echoing through the office like a crack of thunder. The wooden surface shook beneath his hand, a testament to his fury.
With a sweep of his arm, he cleared the table, sending papers, pens, and files crashing to the floor. The sound was chaotic, a cacophony of shattering glass and crunching wood.
He stood there, panting, his chest heaving with anger. His thoughts swirled around the Blackwoods, his mind consumed by a burning suspicion.
Those ruthless, power-hungry monsters. They're behind this.
Alexander's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. He vowed to stop at nothing to rescue his sister and bring the perpetrators to justice.
The Blackwoods would pay for this.
For a moment, Alexander stood frozen, his rage and determination fueling his resolve. The silence was oppressive, heavy with unspoken threats.
Then, with a swift motion, he strode out of his office, ready to mobilize his resources and launch a personal war against those responsible for Alessia's disappearance.
The hallway seemed to darken as he passed, the shadows cast by his anger. His footsteps echoed through the corridors, a warning to those who dared cross him.
Alexander Thompson would not rest until his sister was safe, and justice was served.