About ten minutes later, Zelda Swallow's personal lawyer walked out the door.
He was Zelda's lawyer for decades and well-known around London—a man tight-lipped about his client's personal matters. Whatever Zelda said in the hospital room, no one dared to ask.
After the lawyer left, the doctors and nurses walked back in.
Trenton Smith and the others entered as well.
Zelda Swallow, suffering from end-stage heart disease, lay on the hospital bed, his face a ghastly pale.
He looked frail and weak, a year spent lying in bed had reduced him to nothing but skin and bones.
Hearing footsteps, he slowly opened his eyes—his murky eyes first landing on the face of the son he loved most.
For the past three years, the father-son relationship had been extremely strained. Trenton hardly ever visited him, and almost every encounter ended in arguments.
