The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 157

He didn’t try to hide the truth. “Laura’s blood loss wasn’t severe enough to need a transfusion, but her hemoglobin levels were dangerously low. So, we gave her two hundred cc of blood just in case.”

Her hemoglobin was still too low.

Franco’s brows drew together.

It still wasn’t enough.

Right then, a bodyguard stepped up behind him and said something softly.

The doctor was waiting for instructions, but before he could ask, Franco turned around and walked straight into the elevator.

In the emergency room lobby, Harris peeled off his white coat and set it down. He rushed over to Petty, both hands landing on her shoulders as he looked her over from head to toe.

“Did you get hurt?”

He’d been in surgery all morning. It wasn’t until he finished that he found out about the attack on the White family’s nursing home. On replaying the interrupted live stream, he caught a glimpse of Petty in the chaos, and his heart nearly stopped.

She hadn’t answered his calls. When he sent someone to check on her, he finally heard she’d come to the hospital.

Seeing her now, standing there, safe and whole, he finally let out the breath he’d been holding.

Petty shook her head. She could hear Harris still trying to catch his breath. He must have run all the way here.

She didn’t have feelings for Harris, not like that, but still, she hated to see him worry. She tried to reassure him, “I’m fine, Harris. Really.”

His hands pressed more firmly into her shoulders. His fingers trembled a little as he tried to hold back everything he was feeling.

Harris fought the urge to just pull her into a hug.

He wanted to, so badly, just wrap her up, hold her close, and settle the anxiety crawling under his skin.

If Franco could be killed that easily, he was never worthy of leading the White family.

Today had just been a test—a way to see where Franco’s limits lay.

As for the ones who carried out the attack, their deaths didn’t matter. He had an endless supply of men ready to die for him if he asked.

He strolled toward the wall of screens, wine in hand. Picking up the remote from the coffee table, he paused the feed.

He took another sip of wine and stared at the frozen image of the female reporter on the screen, clearly interested.

He raised his other hand, fingertips gliding over the mask covering her face, blocking off the upper half from view.

A slow, cold smile crept across his lips. In his calm eyes, a dangerous chill began to gather.

“So, you’re an undercover reporter,” he murmured. “Petty.”