Obsessed Heir (Billionaire Heirs #4)

Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Barron

“ E xcuse 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.

I stretch out, ensuring she’s safe from getting hit, and crouch next to her. She’s crying quietly into the handkerchief, her shoulders shaking.

“I’m f-f-f-fine,” she insists, despite the tears.

I straighten, shaking my head, knowing that even now, she’d never admit to weakness.

Taking hold of the chair, I swing us toward the elevator. A knot has formed in my stomach before we’re halfway down. “It’s okay, Mom. Everything will be all right.”

Which only makes her cry harder, and me want to kick myself.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No doctor.”

“You’re lightheaded and?—”

“Please.”

The hurt in her eyes is all it takes to make me reconsider. I’m out of my element when trying to offer comfort. Though I know enough to avoid upsetting her any more than what I already have.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, giving up all hope of keeping this situation under control.

Her breath hitches softly. “T-talk.” She sniffs, bringing the handkerchief to dab at her cheeks. “Can we go somewhere private?”

“Should we go back upstairs?” I ask cautiously.

Which makes her sad again, and makes me want to kick myself a second time.

“No,” she says.

“I think I know a place.” I run a finger along the delicate line of her jaw, which finally elicits a watery smile.

Straightening, I pull my phone out and shoot off a message to James. Thinking better of it, I add a second request.

Take a sandwich, chips, and an apple to Abigail’s room.

Because she will not get her way. Abigail shouldn’t have missed lunch. Then again, she shouldn’t have gotten the shock she did.

Which wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been so heavy-handed.

Right away, sir.

I need to deal with one thing at a time. And Abigail, being so much like my mother, will hold herself together, despite how distraught she is. She would likely send me off to tend to my mother anyway.

I stash my phone in my pocket as the door slides open. Grasping the handles, I maneuver out, taking us aft, through the ship then on to an upper deck.

Shoving the heavy oak-paneled door with my shoulder, I lead us into a secluded bar set up away from prying eyes and unwanted interruptions. The dark paneling, plush seating areas, and low music are perfect for private conversations.

I wheel Mother over to a quiet alcove, arranging the chair at the table so she can enjoy the view through the tall windows overlooking the deck. There are two brandy snifters waiting for us.

“Drink this.” I slide a snifter across the polished wood to set it in front of her. “It should help settle your nerves.”

I settle into the chair across from her as she folds the handkerchief and places it on her lap.

She wraps her delicate fingers around the bowl, cradling it in her hand. Bringing the glass to her lips, she inhales the aroma, and her features soften. It isn’t until she’s taken her first measured sip of the rich amber liquid that I join her.

“Mr. McClelland,” the bartender greets us with a polite dip of his head, “Ma’am.” He sets down two heaping crystal sundaes for us, alongside a pair of long-handled spoons, and a stack of napkins.

“Oh, how wonderful.” Mom’s face lights up, bringing a spot of color on her cheeks. “Thank you so much, young man.”

“You’re very welcome.” He gives her a cheerful smile before turning to me. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Leave the bottle on the bar and take a break.”

“Very well, sir,” he says, not even blinking at my directive. He backs up then turns to walk away.

“Lock the door on your way out, would you?” I add as an afterthought. “This is a private conversation.”

“Of course.”

Mother watches him leave before she gives a faint shake of her head.

“That wasn’t necessary,” she says, returning to a semblance of her regular self.

I pick up a spoon, offering it to her. “Maybe I wanted to spend some time alone with my mother.”

Her gaze meets mine. The years fall away, I’m at home, telling her my dream of making my fortune on my own while she fixes us sundaes.

You’re just like your father…

Only back then, she didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. I dig in to my own sundae, enjoying the shared silence.

“She hasn’t done anything wrong, you know,” Mother says after a few bites.

I sit back, expecting the same sense of irritation I always have when we discuss Abigail. Only today, my usual knee-jerk reaction is absent. I’m more at peace about the subject than I can ever remember.

“I don’t care,” I reply honestly.

“Barron, please, you?—”

“No, not like that.” I give her a rueful smile, knowing I should have expected her to misinterpret my statement. “I mean, I don’t care if she’s done something wrong or not.”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “You don’t?”

“I don’t, and I told her so earlier.”

“You did?” Mother tilts her head, narrowing her eyes.

“Granted, my timing wasn’t the best,” I admit, though it’s all I’m going to share about what happened between us.

She nods slowly, accepting my explanation. So, there’s a chance she’ll let it go, at least for the moment. But she sets her spoon down, and I brace myself for anything. Opal McClelland has a mother’s intuition and a sharp tongue.

“Remember when I was at the hospital for some tests last year?” she asks tentatively, knocking me for a loop.

“Yes.” I gather my composure, determined not to shatter this moment of calm. While this conversation has veered way off track, the fact it’s about her health sets me on edge more than any tongue-lashing ever could.

“Well, it was a little more serious than I let on.” She drops her gaze to the table, absently smoothing the napkin.

She might as well have punched me in the gut. “How serious?”

“I was hospitalized…for several weeks,” she reveals, avoiding my gaze.

The fact she doesn’t mention an exact number of weeks is enough to raise an alarm. Why didn’t she tell me? I would have dropped everything and gone straight to her if I’d known she was sick.

I swallow hard, needing to keep the accusation out of my voice. If I start in on her about why she kept me in the dark, she’s just going to shut down. And I need to know, did I almost lose my mother?

“What happened?” I ask hoarsely, my heartbeat echoing in my throat.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath while I hold mine and wait.