Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: You can’t afford me now

Chapter 922:

“Great.” Linda smiled brightly. “I’m going to head back now.”

“Okay.”

As she exited the room and shut the door behind her, the smile quickly faded from Linda’s face. Family?

What she truly wanted was not just the title of family, but to genuinely be a part of the Flynn household!

Later in the evening, after getting some rest, Linda made her way back to the hospital.

The room was silent, with Ernest asleep on the couch.

Linda first went to check on Eric. He was in a stable condition, and his face looked far healthier than the previous night, almost as if he were just sleeping.

Her heart pounded in her chest…

Years ago, Ernest was in a similar state…

Could it be that Eric would never wake up?

She gazed at Eric, whispering gently, “Eric, the doctor mentioned you can hear us. So, can you hear me now? The trip must have worn you out. You’ve earned a decent rest. I’ll let you sleep a little longer, but only a little. Wake up as fast as you can. Ernest and I are here waiting for you. You fought hard back then. You clung to life and pulled through. You’ll be alright this time too.”

She then walked over to the couch, stooped to pick up a blanket that had fallen to the floor, and draped it over Ernest.

By chance, her eyes landed on a box on the coffee table.

Her curiosity was piqued.

She paused, then picked it up. It appeared to be holding a pen. Upon opening it, she saw a pencil… a mechanical one.

gⱯ𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝖊𝗅𝘀.𝗰0𝗆; 𝓒𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝗍𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃

Linda furrowed her brow, perplexed. Why would Ernest purchase a pencil?

Wait a minute, this brand…

It tugged at a faint memory, as if it were a famous brand from Volara. Curious, she grabbed her phone and began searching.

As she scrolled through the product listing, she spotted an exact match. “A professional designer’s drawing pencil…” Linda murmured, her confusion deepening into a frown.

What use would Ernest have for this? He was a businessman, not a sketch artist.noveldrama

Unless…

A hunch stirred within her, whispering that this might connect to Locke’s mother—a thread in a larger, hidden tapestry.

First, there was that concealed tortoiseshell hairpin, and then the secret villa, and now this pencil.

Linda had long sensed a link between Ernest and Locke’s mother, but she knew pressing him would yield nothing.

Keeping her face neutral, she shut the box and returned it to its original spot.

As dusk settled outside, Ernest stirred awake.

As he sat up, Linda entered from the next room, cradling a steaming bowl of soup.

“You’re up,” she said with a warm smile. “You must be exhausted. I’ll watch over him tonight—you head back and rest. You’re still healing, so I’ll take the night watch. You can handle the day.”

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