Chapter222 Time for His Legs to "Recover"
Isabella heard her father's answer and went still.
She turned slowly and stared at him, unable to process the fact that he had just agreed to something so brutal.
She took two steps back. The heels of her shoes struck the floor with a sharp, hollow sound.
Then she turned and ran, bolting for the door of the living room without looking back.
"Isabella!"
Her mother screamed and rushed after her. Arthur followed without hesitation, his face tight with worry.
The vast living room fell quiet. Of the entire Martinez family, only Mr. Martinez remained.
Clifton's expression didn't change. His voice stayed level.
"Martinez, we'll see ourselves out. My people will be in touch with you directly to handle the rest."
The meaning underneath was clear. Don't even think about trying to wriggle out of this.
Mr. Martinez stood with his fist clenched at his side, wrestling his composure back into place.
After a moment, he nodded.
Before he turned to leave, his gaze drifted almost imperceptibly to Miranda. It rested on her for no more than a second.
Then he was gone.
With the Martinez matter settled, the tension in Mr. Prescott's face finally eased. He looked at Miranda, then at his grandson, and exhaled slowly.
"All right. I'll leave the rest to you two."
He got to his feet and left the room.
The living room went completely quiet.
Miranda sank back onto the sofa. Her body felt loose, like something inside her had finally let go.
Her mind kept replaying everything that had just happened.
When Clifton said he wanted Isabella's hand, Mr. Prescott hadn't made a sound. That silence was its own kind of answer. Its own kind of permission.
And that told Miranda everything she had already begun to suspect.
She had been right. If Isabella had succeeded yesterday, if the Prescott name had been dragged through that kind of scandal because of her, she wouldn't have been quietly divorced and sent on her way.
The rules of survival in a family like this were far crueler than anything visible on the surface.
She was still lost in thought when she heard the soft roll of wheels across the floor.
She came back to herself and realized Clifton had moved his wheelchair to face her at some point. His dark eyes were fixed on her, steady and unblinking.
"What?" she asked, without thinking.
Clifton held her gaze. A beat of silence passed.
"Do you think I went too far?"
The question caught her off guard. She blinked at him.
Then she shook her head, slowly but without hesitation.
"No."
Her voice was quiet. But there was nothing uncertain in her eyes.
She wasn't someone who failed to recognize what had been done for her.
What Clifton had done today was a message, sent loudly and clearly to everyone in that room. Miranda was under Prescott's protection. Coming after her meant coming after them.
The thought settled something warm in her chest. A faint smile found its way to her lips.
"Thank you," she said. "For having my back."
Honestly, the situation could have gone differently. If Mr. Prescott had chosen to keep the peace with the Martinez family out of years of friendship, an apology and a payout might have been considered enough.
But Clifton hadn't let that happen.
He had made sure everyone understood where Miranda stood.
That mattered to her more than she could easily put into words.
Seeing the genuine smile on her face, Clifton felt the corner of his mouth lift in return. Something shifted in his expression, and he spoke again.
"Next time something like this happens," he said, his tone carrying a quiet, deliberate weight, "you'll know what to do?"
He wasn't being harsh. But the point was clear. The wife of a Prescott heir could afford to be kind, but not naive. And never reckless.
Miranda understood immediately.
This was part of what it meant to hold this position. Temporary or not, while she was here, she would carry it properly.
She nodded. "I understand."
There was something almost disarming about the way she said it, simple and earnest, no performance to it.
Clifton reached out and took her hand where it rested at her side. The gesture was unhurried, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her hand was slender and cool against his palm. His own hands were rough, years of work and harder things leaving calluses across his palm and fingers.
The contrast was startling. Something raw and unbidden moved through him.
He released her hand before it could go anywhere. Cleared whatever that was from his expression.
"I'll have someone go with the Martinez representative to handle the paperwork," he said, his voice easy and matter-of-fact. "The three properties. You just need to sign when the time comes."
Miranda tilted her head slightly, something flickering in her eyes.
"For me?"
"Of course." He almost sounded amused. "It's compensation from the Martinez family. It belongs to you. Though if you'd rather not hold onto property that was in Isabella's name, I can have it sold and transfer the cash instead."
He left it unsaid, but the consideration behind it was plain. A house tied to that kind of history might not feel like a gift at all.
Miranda nodded right away. "That works."
She opened her mouth, the word "thank you" already forming. But it stalled before it reached the air.
It felt too small. After everything he had done today, two words seemed almost insulting.
She let it go.
That evening, the paperwork arrived at the Prescott estate along with the news.
Miranda learned that Isabella had been put on a flight out of the country. The destination was a remote city that barely appeared on most maps. Without Mr. Prescott's personal approval, she would never be permitted to return.
Alongside the travel confirmation came a hospital report.
The diagnosis was printed in clean, clinical black and white. The nerves in Isabella's right wrist had been permanently severed. There was no possibility of recovery.
Next to the report sat the documentation for three property sales. The moment Miranda signed, just under two hundred million would be transferred into her personal account.
She picked up a pen and signed her name at the bottom of each page.
Was it cruel?
She asked herself honestly.
Yes. It was.
But if she hadn't been ruthless yesterday, if she hadn't covered every angle and left herself options, it would be her name on a hospital report right now. Or worse.
She gathered the documents and carried them upstairs to the bedroom.
Clifton was leaning against the headboard, on a call. He glanced up when she came in, finished whatever he was saying in a few short words, and hung up.
"All signed?"
"Yes." She set the folder on the nightstand.
His gaze stayed on her face. He was quiet for a moment. Then:
"I'll be tied up for the next three to five days."
Miranda looked up. "A mission?"
He shook his head. Something hard moved through his eyes.
"No."
"There's a traitor inside the Prescott family. I'm going to find them."
He stood as he said it. The light above caught the edges of his face.
"And when that's done," he added quietly, "my legs can finally make their recovery."