Page 95 of Obsessed Heir

I never understood how he could abandon me, leaving me to fend for myself when I was still a child. How, after taking care of me, he could walk away without looking back. Didn’t he ever think about me? About coming back for me?

Tears slide down my face in fat drops.

Didn’t he love me?

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Barron

“Excuse me.” Abigail’s words are barely above a whisper as she leaves the room, a hand pressed against her midsection.

It’s at this moment I realize just how much of my mother’s daughter this girl has become. As distraught as she is, she still has enough frame of mind to politely excuse herself before making her escape.

I take a step forward, intent on catching up to her. Whatever conclusion she reached can’t be far from the truth. She shouldn’t deal with this revelation alone.

“Abby…” Mother calls out in a shaky voice, stopping me in my tracks.

“I’m fine, Miss Opal.”

I glance back to find Mother’s complexion has lost all color, her hand trembling as much as her voice. I close the distance between us in two strides, alarmed at her state.

“Mother. Are you okay?” She seems lost, staring vacantly into space, her lips still parted in a wordless plea. “Mother, look at me.”

“I’m…I’m s-so sorry,” she manages in a quavering voice. Her knuckles are turning white as she grips the arms of the wheelchair.

I’ve never seen her like this. It’s as if she’s aged a decade in the last two minutes.

“You’re fine.” I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We had to tell her sooner or later.” She must have known that. “It was only a matter of time.”

She wrings her hands, her shoulders hunching as she does so. “It shouldn’t have been like this,” she whispers with heartfelt anguish, tears welling up in her eyes.

Maybe not, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

I reach for my handkerchief, pressing it into her hand. She hardly moves her head, reaching for the offering and bringing it to her face as her shoulders start to shake again.

The wall I built around me crumbles at the sight of her, feeling her pain. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen my mother hurt like this, the kind that comes when losing a loved one.

She sets a hand to her temple.

My shoulder muscles tighten. “Are you all right?”

“I…I feel…” Her words fade, and she slumps against the backrest, as if she’s utterly exhausted.

“Mother?” She seems so weak. What might be a sliver of panic rolls through me.

“Lightheaded,” she finishes. “I’m feeling lightheaded.”

“Let’s get you downstairs.” I grip the handles on the wheelchair, maneuvering to avoid the furniture. “Stein needs to check on you.”

Hopefully, he’ll have finished with the other patient. I’ll have Rhys on standby, in case either one has to go to the hospital. I’m not sure if there’s anything resembling a hospital in the vicinity. Damn, that’s another thing we should plan for.

The fact I make it all the way across the room, without a protest, adds to my sense of dread.

Setting the brake, I walk around, reach for the handle, then pause. How do I keep it open? What did Abigail do? Should I get her? But a look at my mother makes me reconsider.

What did I do last time? I backed out into the hallway, pulling her with me. Yes, that’s it. I turn back to the chair and maneuver it around, letting us out of the suite.

“Can you hold the door?” But my question goes without a response. “Mom?” I call out again with urgency.

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