The Killer Queen ( Noella Briony ) novel Chapter 389

In his final days, what weighed heavily on the old man's heart was the welfare of his family and children. Staring at the medical reports, Noella felt a pang of sorrow.

Surgery could potentially extend his life, but Sexton refused to endure a treatment that would leave him tethered to machines, unable to maintain clarity in his final moments. The thought of fading away, hooked up to life support, was unbearable to him.

Calvin sighed, "I tried convincing him. If he had agreed to the surgery with you leading it, there might have been a chance... But Sexton, he just wouldn't have it."

Noella felt a lump in her throat. Sexton was worried about burdening the family, disrupting her and Palmer's wedding plans with his hospitalization. It was supposed to be a time of joy and laughter for the Pollack family.

"How could he bear to fall now?" she thought.

"Grandpa Sexton's chance of success with the surgery is only thirty percent. Afterward, he might lose consciousness, requiring constant care," Noella explained.

"He doesn't want to end up like that," Calvin agreed.

Sexton, a venerable man with a head of silver hair, wished to leave this world on his own terms.

Noella understood Sexton's feelings.

When Marcel called to inquire about Sexton's condition, a heavy silence fell after she explained the situation. Eventually, Marcel let out a deep sigh.

"At his age, it's a blessing not to suffer too much," he said. "I'll keep an eye on things at the hospital, grandpa. Take care of yourself."

Marcel, having shared a lifetime of friendship and battles with Sexton, was undoubtedly heartbroken.

"Grandpa knows what's best."

After hanging up, Marcel sat in his rocking chair, holding a chess piece that he couldn't bring himself to move. He muttered to himself, "Sexton, I'll let you take back that move. Make sure you come back."

The chessboard remained untouched, a solitary yellow leaf falling upon it.

...

At the Schnabel Hotel, the lobby was ablaze with lights, exuding opulence. A woman in high heels and sunglasses strutted in, arm in arm with a middle-aged man, her face full of disdain.

"Where's your manager? Get him here!" she demanded.

"Our manager is unavailable at the moment. How may I assist you?" the receptionist asked politely.

"Then get Linnea Schnabel. She should have some say here, right?"

The receptionist hesitated before calling Linnea down.

Upon seeing the woman, Linnea exclaimed, "Oriana? What's this..."

The man beside Oriana was clearly in his fifties, and the child with them bore a striking resemblance to him, no doubt his son.

Linnea was shocked. "In this day and age, sugar babies come with kids to the party?"

Oriana removed her sunglasses, affectionately clinging to the rotund arm of the middle-aged man. "Darling, this is my dear friend Linnea."

"What's this? She's worthy of being your friend?" The man's eyes oozed sleaze. "She's not bad-looking. Say the right words, and I might let you two reunite..."

Before he could finish, a knife flew out of nowhere, nicking his hand and drawing blood.