The always composed Ernest, reduced to tears, his face streaked with sorrow. “Elissa…” Ernest sobbed, his swollen eyes reflecting nothing but loss. He whispered to the waves, “You took Locke and left me behind. How do I go on like this…?”

Boom!

Thunder cracked through the sky.

A second later, the heavens opened.

“Mr. Flynn!” The assistant rushed over, panicked. “Please, get up!” But Ernest remained still, like a man rooted in grief.

“You must take care of yourself! For Miss Holland. For your son!” the assistant pleaded.

The rain poured relentlessly, drenching them to the bone.

The wind whipped at their faces, tearing through their cries and stealing the assistant’s voice as he struggled to pull Ernest upright.

Ernest didn’t move. A dangerous thought flickered in his mind—maybe it was better to die right here…

At least then he’d be swallowed by the unforgiving ocean and finally be with his loved ones.

Frantic now, the assistant remembered Quentin’s words. “Your grandmother’s still waiting! She needs you!” And it struck.

Nyla had been calling relentlessly, terrified her grandson might never return.

“Ugh!” Ernest finally stirred.

He clutched his chest—no, he couldn’t die. He still had family. Responsibilities. But oh, the pain… losing Elissa and Locke felt worse than dying.

“Mr. Flynn, please!” The assistant waved over the bodyguards. Together, they lifted Ernest and helped him back to the car.

Later, Ernest stepped out of the shower and changed into dry clothes. The assistant noticed the pallor in his skin. “Are you alright, sir? Should I call for a doctor?”

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“No need.” Ernest’s voice was faint.

He felt hollow, and it hurt everywhere, but he didn’t feel like seeing a doctor.

Besides, no doctor would be able to mend a broken heart.

The assistant’s phone buzzed. It was Quentin.

He passed it to Ernest. “Mr. Miles again. He called earlier too, while you were in the shower.”

“Alright.” Ernest acknowledged before he took the phone from him. “Hello, Quentin.”

“Mr. Flynn,” came the voice on the other end, “when are you returning to Srixby?” Ernest’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Not yet.”

A pause followed. Then, with hesitation, Quentin said, “It’s been over two weeks… maybe—”

Ernest snapped. “What are you trying to say?! It’s only been two weeks! They’re still out there. They have to be!”

“Mr. Flynn!” Quentin dared not press further. “But you need to come back—there are pressing matters at the company that require your decision,” he added gently, “The entire Flynn family is counting on you.”

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