His Heart Stopped.. Mine Was Sold

I ran through the hospital corridor so fast my bag slammed against my hip with every step. The text from Dorinda still burned in my mind. Five words. "Come now or he dies." I shoved open the door to Room 14 and stopped cold. My father lay on his bed the same way he had for three weeks, thin and pale, tubes running from his arms and nose. But Dorinda stood beside him with her manicured fingers resting on the power switch of his ventilator. She was dressed in a cream silk blouse and gold earrings, like she had come from a dinner party instead of a murder attempt. "Ah, you came quickly," she said. Her voice was light, almost friendly. "Sit down, Shaznay. We need to talk." "Get your hand off that machine," I said. My voice came out low and shaking. "I will. Once you hear what I have to say." "I said get your hand off it." Dorinda smiled. It was the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. She had worn that same smile the day she married my father five years ago, and she had worn it every day since while draining his accounts dry. "Your father owes Mercy Hospital six months of medical bills," she said. "Six months, Shaznay. Do you know how much that is? Twenty-two million. The hospital board sent a final notice yesterday. If the balance is not cleared by Friday, they will discharge him. No hospital in Glenford will take him after that. Not with his condition." My chest tightened. "That is his money. His insurance covered the bills." "His insurance expired when his company collapsed. And his savings?" Dorinda laughed softly. "Gone. All of it." I stared at her. "Gone where?" She did not answer that question. Instead, she lifted her hand from the ventilator and reached into her handbag. She pulled out a folded document and held it toward me. "The Emmanuel family is looking for a bride for Victor Emmanuel." My blood turned cold. Everyone in Glenford knew about Victor Emmanuel. He was the head of Emmanuel Holdings, the largest corporation in the country. Seven months ago, someone poisoned him at a board meeting. He collapsed in front of two hundred people. The doctors said he would never recover. "He is in a coma," I said. "He is basically dead." "Which is exactly why the position is available," Dorinda replied. "His grandmother, Evelyn Emmanuel, has offered two hundred million to any respectable family willing to give a bride. Two hundred million, Shaznay. That clears your father's bills, saves his life, and leaves plenty remaining." "You want me to marry a corpse." "I want you to be practical." "Then let Clara do it," I snapped. "She is your daughter. Let her marry the dying man." Dorinda's smile vanished. Her eyes went sharp and cold like broken glass. "Clara has a future. Clara has prospects. You have nothing, Shaznay. You have a dying father, an empty bank account, and a degree you have not even finished yet. This is the best offer you will ever receive." I wanted to slap her. I wanted to grab that document from her hand and tear it apart. But my eyes moved to my father on the bed, and the anger inside me turned into something heavier, something that pressed down on my chest until I could not breathe. "I will find the money myself," I said. "By Friday?" Dorinda folded the document and slipped it back into her bag. "Fine. Try. But if Friday comes and you have nothing, I will sign the discharge papers myself. As his legal wife, I have that authority." She picked up her bag and walked past me toward the door. "Oh, and Shaznay? Do not bother asking your mother for help. Grace does not have a single coin to spare." The door closed behind her. I stood alone in the room with nothing but the sound of my father's ventilator pumping air into his lungs. I pulled a chair to his bedside and sat down. His face was thin now, his cheekbones too sharp under his dark skin. He used to be so strong. He used to fill every room he walked into with his deep laugh and wide shoulders. "I will fix this, Daddy," I whispered. "I promise." I pulled out my phone and dialed Benjamin. He was the only person I knew with real money. We had been together for two years. He loved me. He said it every single day. He would help me. He had to. The phone rang five times and went to voicemail. I tried again. Same result. A third time. Nothing. My fingers tightened around the phone. It was ten at night. Benjamin always answered his phone. Always. I tried one more time. This time, a robotic voice told me the number was unavailable. He had turned his phone off. Panic rose inside my chest. I needed to find him. His apartment was twenty minutes away by taxi. I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the hospital into the warm night air. The street was busy with cars and motorcycles, and I waved down the first taxi I saw. "Victoria Lane, number 12," I said as I climbed in. The ride felt like it lasted forever. I kept checking my phone, hoping Benjamin would call back. He did not. When the taxi pulled up to his building, I paid the driver and hurried inside. The security man recognized me and let me through. I took the elevator to the sixth floor. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. I reached his door and raised my hand to knock. Then I heard voices. A woman's laugh, high and familiar, came from inside the apartment. I froze. "Benjamin, stop it," the voice said between giggles. "You will make me spill the wine." I knew that voice. I had grown up hearing that voice. It belonged to Clara. My hand dropped to my side. The world around me tilted. My stepsister was inside my boyfriend's apartment at ten at night, laughing, drinking wine, while my father lay dying in a hospital bed. I should have left. I should have turned around and walked away and dealt with the pain later. But something inside me refused to move. My hand reached for the door handle and turned it slowly. It was not locked. The hallway of his apartment was dark, but light spilled from the bedroom at the end. Their voices carried clearly through the open door. "When is she going to give in?" Clara asked. "Mother is getting impatient." "She will," Benjamin said. His voice was casual, relaxed. "Shaznay is stubborn, but she loves her father too much. Once the hospital threatens to discharge him, she will crumble." "And once she marries your uncle and he dies..." "Everything he owns goes to his wife. And Shaznay trusts me completely. She will hand it all to me without a second thought." "You are brilliant, Benjamin." "The best part?" His voice dropped lower, but I heard every word. "It was my idea. I am the one who suggested Shaznay's name to Grandmother Evelyn. I told her a Jackson girl would be perfect. Obedient, beautiful, easy to control." Clara laughed again. "And your foolish little girlfriend has no idea." "None." My hand fell from the door frame. My knees buckled, and I grabbed the wall to keep from falling. The corridor stretched and blurred around me. My chest was caving in, collapsing in on itself, and I pressed my palm flat against the wall to stop the shaking. Two years. Two years of sweet words and gentle kisses and promises of a future together. All of it was a lie. Every single moment was a performance designed to trap me, to position me exactly where they needed me to be. I did not cry. For the first time in my life, when everything inside me was breaking, the tears did not come.