Save A Son, Win A Billionaire Husband

2

Nicholas

The hospital corridor smelled of bleach and antiseptic, a harsh odor that made my chest tighten with every step. I stormed down the hallway, my heavy footsteps echoing against the white tile floor. My custom suit was ruined, stained with dirt and grime from the street, but I couldn't care less about an expensive suit.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped animal. Fear and rage were tearing through my blood in equal measure.

Two hours ago, I had been sitting in a high-level boardroom, finalizing a multi-billion-dollar merger. My phone had buzzed—a direct line from my head of security. The words still burned in my brain like hot iron: Sir, Noah got away from the nanny. He’s missing.

I had nearly torn the massive mahogany table out of the floor.

How could a six-year-old child vanish from a private park surrounded by four trained bodyguards and a high-priced nanny? It was unacceptable. It was unforgivable. I had fired the nanny over the phone on the spot, and my security team was currently waiting outside the building, trembling for their jobs. If anything had happened to my boy, no amount of money in the world would save them from my wrath.

"Mr. Sutton!"

Dr. Evans, the chief of emergency medicine, came sprinting toward me with an electronic tablet tucked under his arm. He looked terrified, constantly wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Where is my son?" I demanded, my voice cold enough to freeze the air in the hall.

"He’s in Room 402, sir. He’s safe," Dr. Evans said quickly, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "We’ve run a full body scan and checked him completely. Miraculously, Noah doesn't have a single scratch on him. Not a bump, not a bruise. He is physically completely unharmed."

I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for hours. Relief washed over me, heavy and overwhelming. "Thank God."

"However," the doctor continued, his expression turning grave, "the young woman who saved him was not as fortunate."

I stopped in my tracks. The woman. The stranger who had thrown herself in front of a speeding SUV without a second thought. I had seen her for only a few seconds on the dark street before she blacked out—pale skin, dark blood matting her hair, and a small, fragile frame.

"What are her injuries?" I asked.

"Her name is Faith Porter," Dr. Evans replied. "She suffered a fractured right arm, three cracked ribs, severe soft tissue bruising, and a moderate concussion from where her head struck the pavement. She lost a lot of blood, but her vitals are stable now. We've moved her into a private room to recover."

Faith Porter. The name echoed in my mind.

"She took the full impact of a heavy vehicle so my son wouldn't have to," I said, my jaw tightening as the reality set in. "Ensure she receives the absolute best medical care in this hospital. Put the top specialists on her case. Every single expense goes directly to my personal account."

"Of course, Mr. Sutton. Immediately."

I pushed open the heavy wooden door to Room 402.

The room was quiet, bathed in the soft blue glow of heart monitors and the gentle hum of the medical equipment. Faith Porter lay motionless on the central bed, her right arm encased in a thick white cast, a large white bandage wrapped around her head. She looked tiny in that wide hospital bed, almost weightless.

Beside her stood my son.

Noah hadn't moved an inch from her bedside. He was sitting on a small plastic chair pulled as close to the mattress as physically possible. His small hand was wrapped tightly around two of Faith's pale fingers, holding onto her like a lifeline.

A nurse was standing nearby, holding a small tray with an untouched bowl of warm soup and a glass of juice.

"Mr. Sutton," the nurse whispered softly, taking a step toward me. "I tried to get him to sit on the comfortable sofa or eat something, but he refuses. He won't let go of her hand. He hasn't eaten a single bite, and he won't let any of the staff touch him."

I walked over silently and knelt down on the hard floor beside my son. "Noah," I whispered gently, resting my hand on his tiny shoulder.

He didn't turn to look at me. His large, dark eyes were glued to Faith's sleeping face. His bottom lip trembled, but his grip on her fingers never loosened for a single second.

My heart hurt for him. Ever since the tragedy two years ago, Noah had built an unbreakable wall around himself. He didn't connect with people. He didn't let anyone touch him or comfort him, not even his own grandparents. Yet here he was, clinging to a complete stranger as if his entire world depended on her breathing.

The nurse hesitated near the door, looking back at me with wide, nervous eyes. "Mr. Sutton?"

"What is it?" I asked, my gaze still on my son.

"I know this sounds hard to believe... but when the paramedics brought them into the emergency department, the boy spoke."

I froze. The room suddenly went dead silent.

I slowly turned my head to face her, my eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

"He spoke, sir," the nurse insisted timidly. "When they were moving Miss Porter onto the hospital bed, Noah held her hand and spoke a word. The paramedics heard it too."

A wave of sharp disbelief crashed over me. "That’s impossible," I said coldly. "My son has selective mutism. He has not uttered a single sound in two years."

Two long, agonizing years.

When my wife died in that terrible, sudden accident two years ago, Noah was only four years old. The trauma of losing his mother had closed his heart and locked his voice away completely. I had spent millions of dollars hiring the finest child psychologists, speech therapists, and medical specialists from all over the world. None of them could break through his wall. He had lived in total, heartbreaking silence ever since.

"You must have misheard," I said, my tone flat and final. "Someone else in the hallway made a noise."

"Sir, I promise you—"

"That will be all," I interrupted, shutting down the conversation.

I didn't want false hope. False hope was a cruel poison, and I had swallowed enough of it over the last two years to last a lifetime.

Once the nurse left the room, I stood up and stared down at Faith Porter.

Who was she?

Her clothes—now sitting in a plastic hospital bag in the corner—were worn and cheap. Her hands had faint calluses, the signs of someone who worked long, exhausting hours just to survive. She didn't look like a woman who frequented the wealthy district where Noah had wandered off.

People in my world didn't do anything for free. Everything was a transaction, a calculated move for money, power, or status. But Faith Porter hadn't known who Noah was when she saw him stepping into the busy road. She hadn't seen the Sutton name or a multi-billion-dollar fortune. She had just seen a little boy in danger and threw her own body into oncoming traffic to save him.

She was either the most selfless person I had ever met, or something far more complicated was going on.

I pulled my encrypted phone from my jacket pocket and stepped toward the window, keeping my voice down so as not to break the quiet. I dialed my personal assistant, Julian. He answered on the very first ring.

"Mr. Sutton. I'm already coordinating with the hospital management."

"I need more than that, Julian," I said, staring out at the rain-slicked city streets below. "I want a complete background check on Faith Porter. I want to know everything. Her family, her job, her bank accounts, her debts, her friends. If she has a single secret in her past, I want to know about it by tomorrow morning."

"Understood, sir. I'll have the file on your desk before sunrise."

"And pay her entire medical bill," I added. "Upgrade her to the top private suite. Hire round-the-clock nurses. Make sure she has everything she needs."

"Right away, sir."

I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket. Turning around, I looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost 1:00 AM.

Noah’s small shoulders were drooping with severe exhaustion. Dark circles were heavy under his eyes, but he stubbornly fought off sleep, keeping his tiny fingers locked around Faith's hand.

"Noah, come on, buddy," I said softly, walking over and kneeling beside him again. "It's very late. You need to sleep, and Miss Porter needs to rest so her body can heal."

Noah shook his head stubbornly. He tightened his grip on Faith’s fingers, burying his face into the side of her white hospital mattress.

"Noah, look at me," I commanded gently, placing my hands under his arms to lift him up from the chair. "We are going home now. I will leave two security guards outside the door to protect her. She will be safe. But you need to come home with me."

The moment I lifted his small frame an inch off the chair, Noah began to panic.

He struggled against my hands, his tiny shoes kicking uselessly in the air. His hands reached out frantically, letting go of her fingers only to grab the heavy edge of Faith’s blanket, twisting the fabric into his small fists with desperate strength.

"Noah, stop," I urged, trying to hold him firmly without hurting him. "Listen to me. She is going to be fine, but you cannot stay here all night."

Tears began streaming down my son's pale cheeks. His chest heaved with violent, silent sobs. He squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to that blanket as if letting go meant losing everything.

"Noah, please," I whispered, my heart breaking at his sudden distress. "Let go of the blanket."

Slowly, the little boy stopped struggling.

He opened his tear-filled eyes and looked directly into mine.

For the first time in two long years, the heavy, dead silence in his eyes was completely gone. Instead, they burned with raw, desperate emotion.

His mouth opened. His throat hitched, making a raspy, painful sound as if forcing air through pipes that hadn't been used in years.

I froze. My breath caught in my chest, and my blood ran cold.

In a small, broken voice, Noah said, “Don’t take me away from Mommy.”