Chapter 3
1638 Words
Aubrey's POV
"It's... it's your Dad, Logan" Ethan informed.
The room fell dead silent with the uneven pants of Ethan and the ticking clock on the wall providing the only sense of the existence of time.
Mr. Logan held several expressions on his face; he was pissed off, angry, confused, bewildered, and shocked as he was trying to register the message he had just got.
In split seconds, he composed himself, returned to his usual expressionless face, and retreated into the backrest of his seat.
"You must be signing your death papers for messing with me Ethan," he sternly stated.
"Messing with you? "How the f**k will I be joking about such a serious matter?" Ethan blurted with a scoff.
"Your father was rushed to the hospital five minutes ago."
I couldn't help but flinch, reacting to the aggressive jolt from Logan.
In a rush, he reached for the collar of Ethan, squeezing it firmly and asking through his gritted teeth:
"What the f**k are you talking about?"
I could see a pool of tears swelling in his eyes.
"Your father was involved in a collision just a few kilometers from the office building. His driver is dead, his bodyguard brutally injured, and he..."
"He what?!!!" Logan barked.
"Mr Logan. Hitting him wouldn't make matters better. I think we should hurry to go see him now. "Your father needs you, sir," I calmly stated to ease the tension.
He gave Ethan a death stare before forcefully leaving his collar free.
"Ethan, what hospital was he admitted to?" I asked.
"Bech's Specialist Hospital," he answered, glaring at Logan.
Logan quickly rushed for his car keys and gave Ethan a shove.
Mouthing a 'sorry' to Ethan, who was putting his shirt back in order, I hurriedly followed after my boss.
Keeping up with his pace with the suffocating 4 inches I'm putting on is a whole task on its own.
He reached for his car in no time and I had no choice but to jog to his car. I reached out for the door of the passenger seat and entered the car.
As I climbed into the passenger seat of my boss's luxurious SUV, I was immediately enveloped by an aura of opulence. The moment the door clicked shut, I felt like I had stepped into another world. The leather seats cradled me in buttery softness, the rich aroma of high-quality leather wafting through the air.
The interior was meticulously crafted, with dark wood paneling that gleamed under the soft glow of ambient lighting and chrome accents that caught the light just right, making everything look polished and expensive. A flat-screen display seamlessly integrated into the dashboard promised a world of entertainment and information.
The SUV was equipped with every conceivable luxury—climate control set to the perfect temperature, an advanced sound system that could practically deliver concert-quality audio, and even heated cupholders that would keep my coffee warm on chilly mornings.
I couldn’t help but admire the plush cushions and the attention to detail, each stitch in the upholstery flawlessly executed. This was no ordinary ride.
As the vehicle roared to life and sped down the road towards Bech's Specialist Hospital, I could feel apprehension weaving its way through the air, thickening the atmosphere.
My boss sat in the front seat, his expression a mask of concentration and tension as he gripped the steering wheel. His usual composure felt frayed—this was a man usually in control of every situation, now visibly on edge.
I glanced at him sideways, knowing that I needed to ease the weight of the moment. Reaching for the controls, I coaxed the sound system into a friendly hum of soft radio music. As the tranquil notes filled the car, I turned up the volume just enough to drown out the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind against the glass.
“Let’s just breathe for a moment, shall we?” I said, attempting to keep my tone light. The music had a gentle rhythm, something uplifting yet soothing—a welcome contrast to the urgency of our journey.
At first, I wasn’t sure he’d respond, his grip on the wheel not loosening in the slightest. But slowly, I noticed tension ebb away from his shoulders. The strain in his forehead seemed to soften, and as the melody played on, he relaxed just a fraction.
“This is a good song,” I ventured, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, grateful that the ambiance had shifted ever so slightly. It was a small victory, but sometimes those mattered most.
The SUV glided over the asphalt, urgency in its speed but gentleness in the atmosphere that surrounded us. I found comfort in the bittersweet irony of this moment; inside this magnificent vehicle, beneath the craft skills laid out for all to admire, was the simple endeavor of bringing us closer to hope.
As the destination drew nearer, I allowed the music to become my shield, wrapping us both in an invisible barrier against the mounting anxiety. With each passing mile, the conflict of life outside continued, but within this opulent capsule, calm gradually reclaimed dominion over despair.
As the SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of Bech's Specialist Hospital, I watched my boss take a steadying breath before he opened the door and stepped out. The tension that had previously etched lines into his face had notably softened, yet there was still an urgency in his stride as he hurried toward the entrance. The way he moved—quick, purposeful, yet now less frantic—was a small comfort, suggesting that the soothing music had eased some of the weight on his shoulders.
I stepped out behind him, feeling the cool air on my skin and the gravity of the situation hanging between us like a thick fog. We walked through the glass doors which slid open smoothly, revealing a polished lobby bustling with nurses and visitors. My boss approached the front desk with a determined look, his hands resting against the counter as he leaned slightly forward.
“Excuse me,” he said, urgency creeping into his voice. I’m looking for my father. He was brought in after a car accident. What room is he in?”
The receptionist, her demeanor calm and professional, looked up from her screen. “I’m sorry, but your father is still undergoing treatment. We can’t allow visitors in at this time.”
The moment felt like it froze in place. I noticed his shoulders slump slightly, that flicker of frustration returning, but he took a breath and nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the necessity of the situation. As he stepped away from the desk, I saw the storm of anxiety begin to swirl again, their shadows reflected in his expressive eyes.
Wanting to distract him from the weight of uncertainty, I caught up with him and fell into step beside him. “You know,” I began, trying to find the right words, “something is fascinating about flowers. Have you ever thought about how they symbolize resilience through their life cycles?”
He looked at me, puzzled yet curious, momentarily distracted from his worries. “Flowers?”
“Yeah, think about how a flower blooms,” I continued, a sense of calm washing over me as I spoke about life’s intricacies. It starts as a tiny seed, hidden in the soil. It faces storms, harsh winds, drought—yet with the right conditions, it pushes through and blossoms beautifully.
He listened, the storm in his gaze flickering slightly as he contemplated my metaphor. “What does that have to do with my father?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Just like those flowers,” I pressed on, my voice gentle and encouraging, “Your dad is going through a tough time right now." He’s facing challenges we can’t control, but with care and time, he’s going to come out of this. Just like the flower, he can blossom again. It may take longer than we want, but healing is a process—just as beautiful as the bloom itself.”
He nodded slowly, digesting my words, and I could see the anxious lines on his face begin to smooth out. “I guess you’re right,” he murmured, glancing toward the waiting area where the soft, inviting chairs promised moments of rest. “He’s strong. He’s always been strong.”
“Exactly,” I replied, encouraged by his shift in perspective. “And when the time is right, he’ll be back on his feet, just like that flower reaching for the sun.”
As we moved to the seating area, I could sense that my analogy had found purchase in his mind. The urgency in his demeanor had eased slightly, and for the moment, we both held onto that glimmer of hope—a simple reminder that even in life’s darkest moments, there was always the possibility of renewal.
As the minutes stretched on, time felt almost suspended in the sterile confines of the hospital. The only markers of its passage were the rhythmic hustle and bustle of nurses, the hurried footsteps of visitors, and the occasional murmur of concern echoing against the walls. The silence between us was palpable, thick with unspoken fears. My boss, Logan, stared ahead, his brow slightly furrowed, lost in his thoughts, while I kept stealing glances toward the clock on the wall, the only indicator of time creeping forward amidst the stillness.
Our reverie was eventually interrupted by a voice that sliced through the tension—a voice that carried both urgency and affection. “Logan! Logan!”
We turned to see an older woman approaching, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and distress. It was his mother, Mrs Rita Archer.
- Writer
