Chapter193 The Accident
The black Maybach rolled slowly through the iron gates of the Prescott estate. Inside the living room, Mr. Prescott sat regally on the central sofa, his gaze fixed on the three people entering.
"Grandfather," Miranda said respectfully.
Mr. Prescott didn't look at her for long. Instead, he turned his attention to Clifton in the wheelchair. "Clifton, you—"
The old man barely started before Clifton cut him off. "Grandfather." Clifton rubbed his temples. "I’m tired today. Whatever it is, we’ll talk tomorrow."
Without waiting for a reaction, he turned to Miranda. His tone was as natural as any devoted husband’s. "Miranda, take me upstairs."
Miranda nodded compliantly. "Of course." She looked at Mr. Prescott with polite poise. "Grandfather, I’ll take Clifton up to rest now. You should get some sleep too."
The two disappeared into the elevator.
In the living room, only Mr. Prescott and Isabella remained. Isabella stared at the closed elevator doors, a flash of resentment crossing her eyes. She took a deep breath, quickly smoothing her expression into her usual mask of gentle obedience.
"I didn't expect to run into Miranda at the airport," Isabella said, her eyes flickering with feigned surprise. "You sent Clifton to pick me up today, but we ran right into Miranda’s brother at the exit."
She paused, speaking at a volume that seemed like a private thought but was perfectly audible to the old man. "It’s strange. Miranda didn't tell Clifton she was coming back. If we hadn't run into them by chance, we wouldn't have even known she landed today."
To Mr. Prescott, this sounded like Miranda didn't view the Prescotts as family. As the wife of a Prescott, she hadn't called the family driver; she had called her brother.
Mr. Prescott’s beard trembled with rage. "Does she think this house is a hotel? Coming and going as she pleases? A wife travels far and doesn't even tell her husband she’s back? This is ridiculous!"
In his old-fashioned mind, this meant Miranda had no respect for Clifton and no heart for this family.
"Grandfather, please don't get upset. Think of your health," Isabella said quickly. She hid a triumphant smile while pretending to defend Miranda. "Maybe she just didn't want to bother Clifton. Young people like their 'independent space' these days."
"Independent space? She’s just gone wild!" Mr. Prescott snorted. "If she married into this family, she follows our rules! Neglecting her husband like this... she doesn't act like a Prescott wife at all!"
Isabella lowered her eyes to hide the gleam in them. She knew she had done enough. Miranda was still the legal wife, and Isabella was an outsider; saying too much would backfire. It was better to let the old man’s imagination do the work.
Sure enough, Mr. Prescott fell silent, but his dark expression said it all. His resentment toward Miranda had reached its breaking point.
---
The next day, Miranda returned to her usual routine. Clifton seemed busy as well. They exchanged brief greetings at breakfast and went their separate ways.
As soon as she sat down in her office, her phone vibrated. It was an unknown number, but she recognized the tone of the message instantly.
Miranda! Drop the lawsuit now! Ariana has suffered enough in prison. Are you trying to kill her?
Miranda looked at the venomous words with a sneer. With a blank expression, she blocked the number and deleted the text.
She spent the entire day buried in paperwork. Meetings, reports, proposals—she was so busy she barely had a sip of water. It wasn't until the sky outside turned pitch black that she closed her last file. She rubbed her aching neck and checked the time.
9:30 PM.
Aside from the security guards, the building was empty. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the city traffic. She planned to see her brother tomorrow to discuss his return to the company.
Suddenly, her phone began to vibrate violently on the desk. The sound was jarring in the silent office. Miranda hurried over and picked it up. It was a landline from a local hospital. Her fingers trembled as she swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
"Is this Miranda?" a man's urgent, serious voice asked. The background was chaotic, filled with the beeping of monitors.
"Speaking," Miranda said, her voice tightening. "Who is this?"
"I’m a doctor from the Central Hospital ER."
What the doctor said next made her head spin. She nearly collapsed.
"Your brother, Christian, was in a severe car accident. He is in emergency surgery right now. His condition is critical. We need a family member here immediately to sign the consent forms!"
An accident? Emergency surgery?
Miranda’s face turned deathly pale. Her phone hit the desk with a loud thud.
"Miranda? Are you there? Please get here as fast as you can!"
the doctor’s voice snapped her back to reality. She grabbed her phone and bag, forgetting to even turn off her computer, and stumbled out of the office. The elevator ride felt like a century. In the garage, she floored it toward the hospital.
---
At the hospital, outside the ER, the lights were blindingly white. The air smelled of sharp disinfectant. The red "In Surgery" sign was lit. When Miranda arrived, she only saw the closed doors.
"Doctor! Nurse! How is my brother?" she cried, grabbing a nurse who had just stepped out. Her voice was shaking uncontrollably.
The nurse looked at her pale face and softened her tone. "He’s still in surgery. He has internal bleeding and a broken leg. The situation isn't great. You should prepare yourself."
Miranda’s legs gave out. She sank onto a cold plastic bench, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved with silent sobs.
Brother, you can't leave me. Please be okay.
At the same time, back at the Prescott estate.
Done. If he’s not dead, he’s a cripple.
Isabella lounged on the sofa, looking at the encrypted message on her screen. A cruel, smug smile spread across her face.
Miranda, why did you have to hold onto that title? Let's see how tough you are now.
She turned off her phone and looked at Mr. Prescott, who was watching the news nearby. "Grandfather, Miranda isn't back yet. Should we send a driver for her?"
Mr. Prescott checked the time. It was past 10:00 PM. He let out a cold snort.
Isabella pretended to think of something and hesitated. "Grandfather... do you think she went back to her own home? Maybe she forgot to come back here."
This was fuel to the fire.
"Forgot? She is a Prescott! This is her home!" Mr. Prescott slammed his hand on the table. "They haven't been married that long and she’s already staying out all night? She clearly doesn't care about Clifton, or me!"
"Don't be angry, Grandfather," Isabella said, rubbing his back to soothe him while continuing to stir the pot. "Actually, I feel like Miranda is a bit... cold to Clifton."
"Clifton’s legs are injured; he needs care and attention. But Miranda? She’s busy with her company all day. When has she ever actually looked after him?"
Mr. Prescott’s eyes turned dark and predatory. At this rate, when would she ever provide a Prescott heir? He looked out into the night. It was time to make other plans.