She Turned Her Grief Into Wings novel Chapter 80

Speculation ran wild, but no one truly knew what the old man was thinking.

Just like Vivienne had said: they claimed it was to toughen him up, but was it really?

Rhys remained silent, his dark eyes shifting from the scenery outside the window to the woman's face. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "What? Are you hoping to grab a piece of the Sinclair inheritance for yourself?"

The woman standing before him was one of Hector's many adopted children, plucked from a casino in Myanmar years ago.

Vivienne stepped closer, tilting her head up. In a dangerously intimate tone, she whispered, "Compared to a piece of the pie, I'm far more interested in you, Jerome."

An overpowering scent of roses invaded Rhys's senses. He reached out, his thumb harshly grazing across her bright red lips, and let out a dark chuckle. "You think you're worthy?"

Her degrading words didn't seem to offend Vivienne in the slightest. In fact, it only seemed to thrill her more. As if issuing a challenge, she asked, "If I'm not worthy, then who is? That girl... Shera?"

Shera.

At the mention of her name, Rhys's heart skipped a beat. The fingers buried deep in his pockets twitched involuntarily, but his face remained a perfect mask of indifference.

"You know quite a bit for an outsider."

Vivienne's eyes sparkled with amusement. She reached out, wrapping her hand around his arm, and tilted her head. "That's only because I care about you so much, Jerome. I naturally want to know everything about you."

Rhys pulled away. "You'd better hope so."

The bedroom door suddenly opened, and the private doctor stepped out—a balding, scruffy-looking white man.

The crowd instantly swarmed him, clamoring to know the situation.

The doctor pushed his way through the vultures, making a beeline straight for Rhys. Speaking in fluent Russian, he said, "Mr. Sinclair's condition has stabilized. As long as he doesn't suffer any further shock, he'll be fine."

Stabilized?

"And here I thought you were coming out to announce his time of death," Rhys replied calmly, his words dropping like a bombshell that left everyone reeling.

If the old man wasn't dead, why had he been summoned all the way back?

To celebrate Labor Day?

Rhys stared down at the man in the bed, his finger idly tapping against the clear IV tubing.

"Jerome."

The voice crackled out, muffled by the oxygen mask.

Jerome.

It had been a very long time since he had been called that by him.

When was the last time? Rhys tried to recall.

Right, he remembered now. It was right after he had been dragged back to Port City. The dynamic had been exactly the same—one towering above, one lying below; one completely helpless, one holding all the power.

Except back then, he was the one lying in the bed with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, unable to move.

And Hector Sinclair had stood over him, looking down just like this, calling him Jerome.