Chapter 6 - Consequences and Care
“No... no, Mr. Sterling, please! You can't do that!” Barrett lunged forward, abandoning all dignity, his voice breaking into a pathetic whine as he chased after Arthur toward the driveway. “Months of work! That account is my life! Sir, please listen to me!”
Arthur didn't even look back. He got back into his Mercedes SUV, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway without another word, leaving Barrett standing alone on the asphalt, broken, disgraced, and utterly ruined.
Sloane let out a loud, theatrical wail and collapsed onto a folding chair, burying her face in her hands. “Our lives are over! Barrett, how could you let this happen?!”
Maddox finally lost his tough-guy facade. Realizing that his father was no longer an invincible shield, the fifteen-year-old bully began to cry, whining to his mother that it wasn't his fault everyone was overreacting.
Meanwhile, my priority wasn't Barrett’s ruined career or Maddox’s shattered ego. It was my daughter.
“Come on, bug,” I said softly, kneeling beside Mira and Elowen. “Let's get you to the hospital and get that hand fixed up properly.”
Mira kissed my cheek, her eyes shining with unshed tears of relief and vindication. “Let's go.”
My parents stood frozen near the kitchen door, my mother looking horrified and my father shaking his head in silent agreement. As I walked past my father, he placed a heavy, weathered hand on my shoulder.
“You did the right thing, son,” my father murmured quietly. “We let them get away with it for too long.”
“I know, Dad,” I replied.
We drove straight to the pediatric emergency center. The X-rays confirmed a fractured metacarpal and a badly sprained wrist—painful, requiring a cast for six weeks, but thankfully no permanent damage to her growth plates or bones. The medical staff were wonderful, wrapping her hand in a bright purple cast and giving her a large cup of cherry slushie to ease the shock.
While Elowen rested against Mira in the hospital room, sipping her drink with her left hand and managing a small, brave smile, my phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket.
It was Barrett.
Three missed calls. Then a text message.
May you like
“Quinton, please pick up. You ruined everything. Talk to Mr. Sterling, tell him it was a misunderstanding. Please.”
I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then, I blocked his number, slipped the phone back into my pocket, and sat down beside my daughter to help her design stickers to put all over her new purple cast.
