Ernest went quiet.
He closed his eyes, grief pressing down like a weight.
Quentin pressed on, “Our partners require your presence. Neither Mr. Scott nor I can substitute for you.”
Quentin was just an assistant, and Eric was already aligned with the Scott family.
Being a Scott, how could Eric represent the Flynn family and handle their business anymore?
“Mr. Flynn,” Quentin pleaded. “Please come back. The search will go on. If we don’t give up, I truly believe they’ll return.”
Ernest kept quiet, his eyes closed, and his body swaying ever so slightly.
On the other end, Quentin said nothing—he simply waited, quietly and patiently.
After a long, heavy silence, Ernest finally murmured, “I see.”
The phone slipped from his fingers as his knees nearly gave out.
“Mr. Flynn?” The assistant rushed forward, catching him just in time. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Ernest gave a weary shake of his head, “I’m not dying.”
With quiet resolve, he commanded, “Get ready… we’re heading back to Srixby.”
The assistant straightened immediately, tension rippling through him. “Yes, sir!”
In the stillness of the early hours, beneath a moonlit sky, Ernest ascended the steps of his private jet bound for Srixby.
He sank into the leather seat, his posture slouched, eyes fixed on nothing. Closing his eyes, memories surged forward—Elissa and Locke, vivid and untamed.
“Mom, look! I got an A on my dictation today!”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. What reward should we celebrate with? Ice cream?”
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“Yes! Ice cream!”
“But shhh… don’t let Daddy know. We’ll eat it in secret.”
“Okay! It’s delicious! Mom, you try some too!”
“Yummy!”
Tears slipped silently down Ernest’s cheeks.
He had done this—he had torn apart the life that once brought him genuine joy. Once, he had everything: laughter, love, and a whole family. But his arrogance shattered it all, and now, only emptiness remained.
He had crushed the heart of his home with his own two hands.
His body lived on—lungs drawing breath, heart dutifully beating. But inside… he was hollow. A man in form, a ghost in truth.
Grief coiled around his chest like a tightening noose, pulling him deeper into the dark…
“Ernest? Can you hear me? Wake up.”
Ernest heard a voice, but the face behind it eluded him.
His eyelids felt like lead, sealed shut by an invisible force. He fought to pry them open, managing only a narrow slit.
.
.
.