Bittersweet Billionaire

Three

A day had passed. Or perhaps a week. Time no longer held meaning. I stared into the void, my thoughts buried beneath the crushing weight of grief, unmoving, unfeeling—just breathing because my body insisted on doing so. I was under suicide watch now, a nurse stationed at my side around the clock. They had stripped me of everything sharp after I'd tried to open my wrists.

I didn’t want to be here anymore.

What was the point of living in a world where my sweet, gentle, beautiful boy no longer existed?

When my parents and sister arrived, I didn’t acknowledge them. My sister, Cheyanne, swept into the room with all the grace of a queen surveying a gutter. She drifted about like the sterile walls offended her, and when her sharp blue eyes finally landed on me, they were full of disgust. Contempt. As if I hadn't nearly died. As if she hadn’t lost a nephew—and I, a son.

“Can we hurry this up? I’ve got a coffee date with Clarissa,” she huffed, checking the time with a dramatic sigh.

My mother stepped forward. “Sairina, we’ve brought papers for you to sign.” Their voices came through muffled, as though underwater. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn't even flinch. My mother turned to the nurse and snapped, “What’s wrong with her?” There was no concern in her tone. No empathy. No warm questions about how I was holding up. I could’ve been a stranger on the street.

“It’s a state of shock,” the young nurse explained softly. “Her mind has essentially shut down to protect her from the trauma of losing her son.”

My mother scoffed, her voice like glass shattering across the sterile floor. “It’s not like she can’t just have another child.” Her words cut through the fog and stabbed straight into my heart. My son was not a plant to be replaced. He was one of a kind. My whole world. And now he was gone. A single tear slid down my cheek, the only sign that I had heard her at all. The nurse opened her mouth to respond.

"Actually-"

“Well, I need her to snap out of it,” she barked, cutting her off. “These papers need to be signed, and I have a schedule to keep.” I wished they’d all disappear. Just vanish, leave me to my silence and sorrow. Let me drift into the dark and follow my boy wherever he had gone. But I knew I wasn’t that lucky.

Summoning every ounce of strength left in my ruined body, I turned my head toward my mother. Her eyes widened in surprise. Behind her, my father stood with his gaze on the floor, his shoulders hunched like the submissive man he’d always been. I didn’t greet them. Didn’t pretend to smile. My voice came out dry and cracked, barely above a whisper.

“What papers?”

My mother straightened her back, chin tipping upward as she stepped closer. She slapped a stack of papers onto the bed with theatrical precision.

“Divorce papers,” she said. I stared at them. At her. For a moment, I truly believed this was some sick joke. The room tilted, laughter threatening to bubble up and turn hysterical.

“I want you to step aside,” she continued, “and allow Cheyanne to take your place as Sammual’s wife. At least she looks the part—and she can provide a proper family for him. You’re no longer needed. You don’t have a son. You don’t have an heir to the Welsh name. We’ve deposited five million dollars into your account to cover the separation details and to ensure your silence on the matter.”

She smirked. Smirked.

I looked into her face—and saw no mother. No humanity. Just a cold, cruel stranger wearing the skin of someone I used to trust.

“On one condition,” I rasped, my voice gravel over broken glass.

She blinked, surprised, then composed herself with a sniff. “What?”

“I want my son’s ashes,” I said. “Delivered to me personally. By the coroner.” She hesitated, glancing at my father as if unsure what to do with this unexpected display of will. I didn’t flinch.

“No ashes, no signature,” I said flatly. “Come back when you have them.” I turned my head back toward the window, shutting them all out once again.

Cheyanne groaned loudly. “Seriously? What do you even want with your dead kid’s remains?” Something inside me snapped. A low, feral growl curled up from my chest, something animalistic and ancient. Cheyanne stepped back, startled, eyes wide.

“If you don’t leave this room right now,” I said, my voice ice and steel, “the hospital staff will be cleaning you off the walls and floor for days.” She fled, heels clacking as she bolted.

I didn’t speak another word. Not to my mother. Not to the man who was supposed to be my father. Only when they were gone did I let the tears fall—silent, unending, full of agony no words could touch.

Why couldn’t the world just split open and swallow me whole?

I hadn’t expected them to return so quickly with my son’s ashes. Especially not after I’d specifically requested they come directly from the Coroner—I needed to know they were legitimate. The Welshes had always found a way to resist even the simplest requests from me. A food preference? My mother would go out of her way to ignore it.

So I’d thought they would drag their feet this time too.

But apparently, they wanted that marriage dissolved more than I realized.

Barely two hours later, they were back. The Coroner offered his deepest sympathies as he placed a small, polished urn and a death certificate on the table beside my hospital bed. My eyes locked onto the gold vase. It shimmered under the fluorescent lights, cold and final. An empty feeling bloomed in my chest and only deepened the longer I stared.

They didn’t even let me gather my thoughts. The divorce papers were thrust under my nose, an impatient finger tapping the signature line. I didn’t care. I didn’t bother to read what they’d written into the contract. All I wanted was for them to be gone. Out of my life. For good.

As soon as I signed the final page, my mother snatched the papers, sliding them back into their envelope like a vulture claiming her prize. The glint of satisfaction in her eyes stung, but I swallowed the pain. I was beyond it now. I had nothing left to give.

“Can I arrange a car to co—” she began.

“I don’t want your help, Mother,” I cut her off, my voice cold as ice. I didn’t look at her, just stared out the window as grey clouds pressed against the glass. “Just leave me alone,” I murmured.

A strange numbness spread through me, dulling the edges of everything.

I’d been young—seventeen. Stupid. In love. I believed Sammual when he said he loved me. I thought the sudden wedding, rushed forward the moment I announced my pregnancy, meant my parents were happy for me. But I see it now for what it was: a transaction. A gateway into the Welsh family’s money and name.

I remembered the disgust in Sammual’s eyes, mistaking it then for annoyance over losing his freedom. But that hadn't stopped him from sleeping around. Nothing ever had. I was just another name on a long list of girls he had conquered.

Time to wake up.

I cradled the urn to my chest, curled onto my side, and turned away. I didn’t know when my mother left, only that the nurse remained behind, openly admitting she couldn’t stand the woman. I didn’t answer. My mind had slipped into that hollow place again.

Sammual never came back. Neither did his family. Nor mine.

It was a blessing.

I finally managed to reach Grandma. My voice cracked with grief, barely able to explain before I fell apart. The nurse—kind and steady—took over. Grandma handled everything after that. The days blurred together, held underwater by my grief. Reality only surfaced in brief, agonizing flashes. My best friend came by a few times, helping Grandma gather my belongings from Sammual’s house.

Before I knew it, I was moved across the country.

My old life melted away—like a bad dream I was desperate to forget. But every night, when I closed my eyes, I lived it all over again.

It would be three years before I saw any of them again.