<b>Chapter </b><b>270 </b>
ADRIAN’S POV
The next day I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands resting on my knees as I thought long and hard about one simple problem–how in the world I was going to take off this bandage and manage a shower without copsing from the pain. For a normal person, it might not be a big deal, but with a gunshot wound healing at my side. every little movement felt like a test of endurance.
I stared at the whiteyers wrapped tightly around my waist. They had be part of me over the past few days, like a second skin. Even though the doctors had told me to change them when needed, I dreaded this moment. Slowly, I reached for the edge of the bandage, my fingers trembling slightly as if my own body was warning me not to go further.
Bit by bit, I began to unwind it. The faint ripping sound of fabric peeling away from tape filled the silent room. Eachyer exposed more of the raw truth beneath. My breathing grew shallow<i>, </i>every tug reminding me that pain was still there waiting for me. By the time I got to thestyer, only the cotton wool pressed against the wound remained, stained faintly from old blood.
Taking in a sharp breath, I forced myself up to my feet. My legs were steady, but my body still felt heavier than usual. I shuffled slowly toward the mirror across the room, the floor cold against my bare feet. Facing my own reflection, I hesitated. Part of me didn’t want to see it. Some wounds you can cover and pretend they aren’t there but seeing them bare is different.
Finally, with a clenched jaw, I pressed my fingers against the cotton and peeled it away. A sharp, stabbing pain tore through my side immediately. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, trying to stay silent, but a low groan still slipped out. My chest rose and fell quickly as I took in several deep breaths, steadying myself until thest bit of cotton wool came free.
–
The sight wasn’t pleasant. Angry red skin stretched around the healing wound, the area swollen but no longer oozing blood. At least there were no signs of infection. That alone gave me some peace. It was healing – slowly, painfully, but healing. I remembered the first three days after the shooting. Back then, even shifting on the bed had been torture. My body had felt like it was tearing itself apart whenever I tried to move. Compared to that agony, the pain I felt now was almost bearable.
I ran a cautious finger near the wound without touching it directly. The skin flinched, but I could tell the pain had reduced by more than half. A week ago, I couldn’t have imagined walking upright. Now, I could stand tall for at least a few minutes before my side protested. Running or jumping was still out of the question, of course, those kinds of movements would reopen the wound without doubt. But walking? Walking was possible, and right now that was enough.
Still, the wound wasn’t my biggest concern at this moment. What bothered me most was the sticky, ufortableyer of sweat that clung to my body. It had been over a week since I had taken a proper shower. Hospital sponge baths didn’t count. My skin itched constantly, and I hated the feeling of being unclean. I couldn’t take it anymore.
I convinced myself I was medically clear. The doctor hadn’t said I couldn’t shower, only that I should be careful. And I was nothing if not careful. So I reached for the waterproof bandage I had bought specifically for this moment. It felt odd in my hand, like I was holding a ticket to freedom. I carefully pressed it over the wound and secured the edges with medical tape. I ran my fingers around it, making sure every corner was sealed. If water got in, it could mean infection, and I wasn’t willing to risk that.
<b>11:48 </b>Tue<b>, </b><b>Sep </b><b>16 </b>
Finally ready, I stepped into the bathroom. The sound of running water instantly filled the room, soothing in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. As the warm water cascaded over me, I closed my eyes and let out a long- breath I hadn’t known I was holding. The water felt like life itself, washing away not only the dirt but also <b>the </b>weight of the past week. I didn’t stay long, though. The doctor’s voice echoed in my mind: Make it quick, protect the wound, don’t push yourself.
So I kept it short, careful not to let the water linger too close to my side. Even then, I felt renewed when I stepped out. My skin was clean, my muscles rxed, and for the first time since the shooting, I felt almost <b>like </b>myself again.
1
Nowes the next challenge clothing. Normally, whenever I stepped out of the house, I wore a suit, It was my armor, my statement to the world. Corporate, sharp,manding. But as I stood in front of my wardrobe, I realized that wasn’t possible today. A suit would cling too tightly around my waist, pressing against the wound, making every step a reminder of pain.
I brought out an oversized hoodie I had tucked away in my for years but never once wore. It wasn’t exactly my style, I had always been the clean–cut, suit–and–tie kind of man but with the bandages wrapped around my waist and the ache that still lingered beneath, I needed something loose. I stared at the ck hoodie for a moment, holding it up in front of me.
“This should work,” I muttered to myself before carefully sliding it over my shoulders. The fabric felt soft, warm, and strangelyforting, almost like a shield that hid my wound.
Once I was fully dressed, I grabbed my phone and called for the driver. Today was important. I couldn’t put this off any longer. I needed answers, and the only ce I could possibly get them was from themissioner himself.
James wasn’ting with me this time. He had insisted on staying behind to keep things steady at thepany. I had already walked him through the necessary steps – what meetings to postpone, what financial decisions to dy at least until I was strong enough to walk into the office myself. I trusted him with that much.
When I stepped outside, my driver was already waiting by the car. His eyes briefly widened when he saw me in the hoodie.
“A new look, sir?” he asked with a faint smirk as he held the door open for me.
“Kind of,” I replied, sliding into the backseat.
He chuckled softly and nodded. “I’m just d to see you up and running again.”
I didn’t bother with a response, just gave him a small nod of appreciation. Soon the car engine hummed to life, and we pulled away from the driveway.
I rested back against the seat, letting the slow rhythm of the soft jazz ying through the car speakers fill the silence.
My eyelids grew heavy, and before I knew it, I drifted off into sleep.
“Sir.”
The faint voice echoed somewhere in the back of my mind. At first, I thought it was part of the dream, but it
<b>11:48 </b><b>Tue</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b><b>16 </b>
came again, sharper this time.
“Sir.”
700
I stirred, slowly opening my eyes. <b>The </b>first thing I noticed was the harsh sunlight pouring through the window, forcing me to squint until my vision adjusted. My driver leaned slightly over the seat<b>, </b>calling my
attention.
“Sir, we’re here.”
I reached over to the smallpartment near me and pulled out a pair of dark sses. Sliding them on, the re of the sun instantly softened. I took a moment to straighten myself, exhaling slowly as I pushed the door open and stepped outside.
My gaze shifted toward the entrance of the police station. For a brief second, I thought the ce looked smaller than I had remembered, almost. But then movement at the corner of my eyes caught my attention.
Several dark–tinted SUVs rolled up, their engines purring in unison. They weren’t just cars, they were part of a convoy, moving with the precision of something official, something powerful. My brows furrowed as I watched the vehicles pull smoothly up to the gates. Whoever this was, they wanted everyone to know they were important. Compared to my quiet arrival, theirs was an announcement.
I paused by the side of my own car, curious. The convoy parked in a perfectly aligned row, and within seconds, bodyguards stepped out, scanning the area as though danger might leap out of the pavement itself.
Then one of them hurried to thest SUV, opening the rear door with practiced precision. From where I stood, all I saw at first was a pair of sharp heels hitting the ground, clicking against the pavement with authority. My eyes followed the graceful steps until finally, the figure emerged.
She straightened to her full height, her posture as confident as ever, her auramanding attention without even trying. The sleek lines of her dress and the subtle confidence in her stride made it clear this wasn’t just anyone. And when her face tilted slightly toward the sunlight, I realized it was Olivia.
B
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