Chapter96 You're Just a Tool I Use Against My Grandfather
Miranda’s mind was entirely focused on her mother’s illness, so she completely missed the extreme suppression in Clifton’s voice.
She nodded subconsciously, her tone matter-of-fact: “Yes, I am. Why?”
Her mother needed round-the-clock care these days. Although there was a nurse, she was a stranger, and many things were inconvenient. It was only right for Miranda to stay by her side at the hospital.
Hearing her immediate and definite “yes,” Clifton’s large hand, resting on the armrest of his wheelchair, clenched tightly. Veins bulged on his hand, looking as if he were about to crush the metal.
She admitted it.
She had admitted it right in front of him, without a shred of guilt—that she would not be coming home for an entire week for that bastard.
Clifton maneuvered his wheelchair and suddenly lunged forward, blocking Miranda’s path.
His shadow fell over her, carrying a suffocating sense of oppression.
He looked up, his usually deep eyes now bloodshot, and a cruel, cold smile played on his lips.
“Miranda, have you forgotten what your identity is right now?”
Miranda was stunned by his abrupt question.
Identity?
She frowned, looking at the man radiating icy coldness. She felt a surge of confusion.
Was he angry because she said she wouldn't be back for a week, and he felt she wasn't fulfilling her duty as a wife by staying home with him?
It was true that the Prescotts had many rules, and as the young madam of the Prescott family, staying out all night for a week was probably frowned upon.
Thinking this, Miranda softened her voice and patiently explained: “I know I’m Mrs. Horton, but I really have an urgent matter this week. I mainly need to be with my mother at the hospital—”
“Enough!”
Clifton cut her off harshly.
His chest rose and fell violently, the darkness in his eyes swirling like a brewing storm, threatening to devour the lying woman in front of him.
The hospital again.
This excuse again!
Yesterday, he had watched her get into Harrison’s car under that tree. Last night, at the private restaurant, he saw them sitting across from each other, and she was still lying to him on the phone.
Now, she was going to use her sick mother as a cover to run off and be with that man?
A searing wave of displeasure flared up in Clifton's heart.
“Miranda, stop trying to fool me with these pathetic excuses.”
Clifton's voice was frigid, each word squeezed out between clenched teeth.
“I don't want to hear it.”
Miranda froze. Seeing the undisguised disappointment in his eyes, her heart felt pricked by a thousand needles, a sharp, dull ache.
He didn't believe her?
“Clifton, what is wrong with you?” Miranda suppressed the hurt and reached out to take his hand. “Did I do something wrong? We can talk about it, why are you so angry?”
Seeing her hand extended toward him, Clifton’s mind instantly replayed the image of her laughing and talking with Harrison.
Had this hand touched that man just as it was reaching for him now?
A powerful surge of possessiveness and a desire for purity exploded within him.
Clifton abruptly twisted away, dodging her touch.
His eyes were cold, like he was looking at a stranger, and his voice was low and hoarse, edged with finality.
“Talk? There’s nothing to talk about. You are simply a tool I’m using to fight my grandfather.”
He took one last, long look at her. The emotions in that look were too complex—fury, disappointment, and a hint of self-mockery that Miranda couldn't understand.
“If you want to go so badly, then get out.”
“I don’t care if you ever come back.”
With those icy words, Clifton didn’t look at her again. He spun his wheelchair around and headed toward the study without a backward glance.
The sound of the wheelchair wheels rolling across the floor was painfully loud in the dead silence of the living room.
Miranda stood frozen, watching his decisive retreat, her eyes welling up with tears for no clear reason.
The man was completely unreasonable!
She was trying to have a mature conversation, and he suddenly flew into such a rage? He even told her to "get out"?
Miranda took a deep breath, hesitating whether to follow him to clear things up, when her phone in her pocket began to ring urgently again.
It was the hospital.
“Miranda, part of the patient’s test results are back, and some indicators are not looking good. We need you to come in right away to sign off on the follow-up treatment plan.”
Hearing this, Miranda’s heart tightened. She immediately forgot all about pacifying the moody man.
“Okay, I’ll be there right away!”
She hung up the phone, took one last look at the closed study door, gritted her teeth, and hurried out the front door with her suitcase.
Her mother's health was the priority.
As for Clifton, she would explain everything when her mother was stable and she returned home.
With her departure, the huge living room fell into absolute silence.
On the second-floor railing, a slender figure slowly emerged.
Celeste held a glass of red wine, looking down at Miranda's hurried exit, then glanced at the closed study door, a triumphant smile curving her lips.
“Heh, a fight, huh…”
She gently swirled her wine glass, her eyes glinting with cunning.
“Looks like I won't have to do much. This woman is about to crash and burn with my cousin.”
Celeste took a sip of her wine, her mood excellent.
Miranda, you got lucky last time and escaped. Since my cousin has clearly grown tired of you, I'll be happy to lend a hand and ensure you're completely out of Prescott territory!
Over the next three days, Miranda stayed at the hospital day and night. She was constantly busy, either caring for her mother or discussing the illness with the doctors.
Meanwhile, back at the Prescott estate, inside the mansion.
The servants were all holding their breath, not daring to make a sound, for fear of incurring the master’s wrath.
In the study, smoke billowed.
Clifton sat in his wheelchair, the ashtray in front of him already piled high with cigarette butts.
He held a document in his hand, but he hadn't turned a page in half an hour.
His deep eyes were fixed on the phone on his desk, as if trying to burn a hole through it.
Three days.
That woman had been gone for three full days. Not a single phone call, not a single text message.
She had only given a curt “busy” reply to the message the butler sent asking when she would return.
Busy?
Busy dating Harrison?
“Click.”
The pen in his hand broke under the pressure, the ink staining his long fingers black.
Just then, the butler knocked softly and entered with a cup of coffee.
Seeing the smoke-filled room and Clifton’s face, which was dark enough to drip water, the butler sighed inwardly.
“Young Master, the Madam has not returned for three days. Perhaps... I should call and ask if she will be home for dinner tonight?”
“No need!”
Clifton refused immediately, his voice as hard as iron.
He tossed the broken pen into the trash, took a tissue, and slowly wiped the ink from his fingers, his movements elegant but radiating a chilling coldness.
“If she truly wanted to come back, would she need you to invite her?”
“If she wants to die out there, then she can stay out there forever.”
The butler looked at his young master, who was clearly desperate but still trying to act tough, and shook his head helplessly before quietly retreating.