Chapter 1396:
“Myron… your father passed away so young—if something happens to you too, how am I supposed to go on living…” she cried, helpless as the operating room doors swallowed him whole.
Inside, surgical prep began with clinical efficiency.
Stainless steel clattered softly. Gloves snapped into place. Overhead lights flared on, bleaching the room into harsh white.
And then—Myron’s fingers twitched.
A moment later, he jolted upright.
“Millie!”
The word tore from his throat with violent urgency. Dizziness hit him immediately, the world pitching sideways as pain radiated from the back of his skull down to the bullet lodged cruelly in his chest.
He pressed a hand to his head, fighting the disorienting spin.
“Sir, please don’t move. You need to lie down first,” a nurse said, trying to steady him.
“You were shot, and you hit your head when you fell. Please, lie back.”
“Prepare the anesthesia,” another voice called.
Dozens of sounds flooded together: the steady beeping of monitors, hurried footsteps, murmured instructions.
But Myron’s mind clawed through the haze, trying to piece together scattered fragments of memory.
The wedding. Millie’s smile. The uproar when someone released the explicit photos. The explosion of chaos. And then—a gun aimed at Millie.
His heart lurched violently.
“How is Millie?” he demanded, his fingers digging into his temples as he forced himself upright.
The medical team exchanged helpless looks.
The anesthetist approached with the mask, but Myron swatted it away with a burst of frantic strength. He ripped off the wires, yanking needles from his arm as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
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“Sir, please—your injuries are severe. The bullet hasn’t been removed—”
“Move,” Myron snarled, staggering forward. No one could stop him. The panic inside him burned hotter than pain.
Millie.
Where was she? What condition was she in? How could he possibly lie still when she might be dying?
He shoved past the staff and pushed the operating room doors open.
Outside, Helga shot to her feet, eyes wet with desperate hope.
“Myron!”
“How is Millie?” he asked immediately, his breath ragged.
Helga froze. Her lips trembled.
“How is Millie?!” Myron roared, red-rimmed eyes locked on her.
“Mother, tell me!”
Behind him, the medical staff explained breathlessly to Helga that he had escaped in the middle of surgical prep.
Helga’s composure collapsed.
“She is not doing well,” she choked out, her voice buckling.
Everything she had tried not to entertain—every fear she had forced down—surged back with brutal clarity.
.
.
.