Her Return : The Billionaire's Contract Wife

Chapter2

Past

Nova

“I’ll be right back, Mom,” I said, smiling as I stepped out of the hospital room.

I sat on the edge of the stiff hospital chair. The air in the room felt heavy, too clean, and too white. Every second stretched like an eternity until the door finally creaked open.

Dr. Patel stepped in, his face unreadable, and instantly my stomach twisted. I already knew. News like his didn’t need words; I’ve spent so much time in this hospital that I could always tell from the look on his face.

“How bad is it?”

“Nova,” he started softly, lowering himself into the chair across from me.

“Her cancer has progressed more aggressively than we anticipated. The tumors are spreading quickly.”

My heart stuttered, then dropped straight through me. “Is there a chance?” My voice cracked, the words barely making it past my throat.

“Yes, but we need to operate as soon as possible. Surgery to remove what we can, followed by intensive chemotherapy.” He paused, his silence doing more damage than anything he could say. “Without it…”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head. “No. Don’t; just tell me. What does it cost?”

His expression tightened, just slightly, before he gave me the number. Hundreds of thousands. Numbers so high they didn’t even feel real, like they belonged to another life, another person. Not me. Not her.

I felt the ground tilt beneath me. “And if I can’t pay for it?”

“Then we focus on comfort care,” he said gently, his voice a knife wrapped in velvet. “But without treatment, her time will be limited.”

Limited. The word echoed in my chest, hollow and brutal. My mother’s life was reduced to a countdown I couldn’t stop. I nodded because I couldn’t speak. My throat burned. I just sat there, drowning in numbers I would never be able to reach. After he left, I made my way to the stairwell and sat there crying silently.

What was I going to do? How would I come up with that much? I barely made anything already, and it all went to her hospital bills. I composed myself and headed back in. As I was opening the door, I heard someone behind me. An elderly woman was coming up the stairs; she didn't look old, about sixty-something. She almost slipped, and I grabbed her in time.

“Be careful, these stairs are tricky,” I said as I held her hand. I opened the door and led her out.

“Thank you. I was here for a checkup and decided to use the stairs,” she said calmly.

“Oh, that’s fine. Well, you’re okay now; I need to get back to my mother.”

“Thank you, go ahead; I’ll manage,” she said.

When I walked back into the room, my mother was just staring. “What did he say?” she asked weakly.

“That you need to take your medication and try to get better,” I said, forcing the smile.

“Nova, don’t lie to me, sweetie,” she said, and I broke.

For two weeks after work I went to the hospital; I was so scared that I could lose her one night. Vera, my best friend and champion, was always beside me, and every time I was at the hospital, I would run into the same woman.

One evening after Mom had fallen asleep, I was sitting outside, drinking a coffee that tasted like s**t, when the same woman came and sat beside me.

“What is your name?”

“Nova”

“I see you every day. I asked, and I learned about your mother's illness. I am sorry,” she said sweetly.

“Thank you.”

“Why don't you get her surgery?” She asked.

“I can’t afford it. Everything I have now goes towards her hospital bills. I even sold the house, and I’m currently staying with my friend. It’s still not enough.” I said with a sigh.

“Let me help you,” she said, and I looked at her. I wasn't stupid; no one helps someone for no reason at all.

“You help me, and I help you. One year. I want you to marry my grandson. A contract marriage for one year, and I take care of your mother. I pay for it all,” she said.

“Who exactly are you?”

She began laughing. “Camille Ashford. I need someone to put a block between my grandson and a money-hungry leech called Tanya. Marry him for a year. There doesn't need to be any physical contact if you wish, but you just need to be there, and in return I will handle all the expenses of your mother's treatment,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied instantly. I knew the Ashfords; everyone did. But her grandson—she had one that was always in the media and on social media. Mathew Ashford.

“Thank you. I will speak to the doctor and have them start preparing for the surgery and treatment. Tomorrow at three, I’ll send a car to get you, and we will do the singing,” she said, patting my hands.

“Okay.”