Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: You can’t afford me now

Chapter 692:

She softened her tone, soothing the boy with the tenderness only a great-grandmother could muster.

“No need to be frightened, Locke. This is grown-up business, nothing for you to worry over. Let’s head home with great-grandma, shall we?”

Children had a keen sense for recognizing genuine affection, and Locke could feel the warmth radiating from Nyla. He gave a small, trusting nod.

“That’s my good lad,” Nyla murmured, guiding him gently.

“Let’s be on our way.”

Linda tore out like a woman possessed, leaping into her car and peeling off into the night without a backward glance.

The orphanage sat perched atop a hill, and by the time Ernest and his men gave chase, Linda had vanished into the shadows like a ghost in the wind.

That night, Ernest was utterly spent.

His body, still mending from a years-long coma he had only emerged from mere months ago, protested with every step. His legs throbbed, and a dull ache pulsed in his temples.

Quentin, ever observant, took note of his struggle.

“Mr. Flynn, why don’t you head back and catch some rest? Leave the search for Miss Harris to me.”

Ernest’s brow knitted together, worry etched deep into his features.

“Even if you find her, Quentin, I fear she won’t come back willingly.”

𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓬𝓮: 𝓰Ɐ⃟ln𝗈ve𝗅⃟s. c𝗈⃟𝗆noveldrama

Quentin couldn’t muster a counter to that grim truth.

Meanwhile, Nyla settled Locke into the car with care. Seeing the strain on her grandson’s face, she approached Ernest with purpose.

“Ernest, your body can’t handle this strain,” she said firmly.

“Come back home with me.”

“But Grandma…” Ernest began, his voice laced with hesitation.

“No buts,” Nyla interjected, her tone leaving no room for argument. Turning to Quentin, she issued her orders with the decisiveness of a seasoned matriarch.

“Get in touch with Eric. Have him come here straightaway—Linda might not heed your words right now, but she’ll listen to Eric.”

Her final words were aimed squarely at Ernest, her gaze steady and resolute.

“Grandma.” Ernest hesitated again.

“It feels like too much to ask of Eric. It’s late, and this mess is my burden to bear after all.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that,” Nyla cut in sharply, unwilling to entertain his self-imposed isolation.

“You’re brothers, Ernest. And brothers take care of each other. If something happens to you, do you think Eric could rest easy? Do as I say.”

She shot Quentin a pointed look, her patience thinning.

“Well? What are you standing around for? Call him!”

“Yes, Mrs. Flynn!” Quentin replied briskly, snapping into action.

In the wee hours of the morning, somewhere between three and four, when the world lay cloaked in stillness, Eric was roused from slumber by the insistent trill of his phone.

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