The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

“Whatever happens, Elena, don’t call them.” I stopped at the kitchen door, still holding the black shoes I planned to wear to work. “Call who?” My father stood beside the sink with his back to me. One hand held the edge of the counter. The other was pressed against the centre of his chest. “Dad?” He slowly turned. The colour had drained from his face. Sweat covered his forehead, although the morning air was cool. My shoes slipped from my fingers. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” His voice came out thin. “I only need to sit down.” He took one step toward the table. His knees gave way. “Dad!” I reached him before his head struck the floor, but his weight pulled me down with him. His shoulder hit the tiles, knocking a metal cup beneath the table. It rolled across the kitchen with a hollow sound. My father’s eyes were open, but they did not settle on me. His mouth moved as he fought for air. I placed one hand behind his neck. “Can you hear me?” He made a weak sound. “Tell me where it hurts.” His fingers tightened over his shirt. “My chest.” I grabbed my phone from the pocket of my skirt. “Don’t,” he whispered. “I’m calling an ambulance.” “No hospital.” I stared at him. “You cannot breathe.” “I’ll be fine.” “You just collapsed.” His face twisted as another wave of pain passed through him. I pressed the emergency number and brought the phone to my ear. My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped it. A woman answered. “Emergency services. What is your location?” “My father collapsed. He has a heart condition, and he’s having trouble breathing.” “Give me your address.” I rushed through it. The operator asked me to place the phone on speaker. “Is he conscious?” “Yes, but he’s weak.” “Is he breathing?” “Barely.” “Keep him lying still. Loosen anything tight around his neck and chest. Help is on the way.” I pulled open the top buttons of his shirt. His skin felt cold beneath my fingers. “Dad, look at me.” His eyes moved toward my face. “That’s it. Stay awake.” “Elena.” “I’m here.” “Don’t call…” His words faded into a painful breath. “Don’t call who?” He closed his eyes. Panic rose into my throat. “Dad!” I tapped his cheek. His eyelids moved, but he did not answer. The clock above the kitchen door ticked loudly. Each second seemed to push him farther away from me. I held his hand. “You are not leaving me,” I said. “Do you hear me? You promised we would fix the roof before the rainy season. You haven’t done it yet.” His fingers moved weakly in mine. “That’s good. Hold my hand.” A siren sounded in the distance. I had never been so grateful for a noise. The ambulance stopped outside our house minutes later. Two paramedics entered carrying a stretcher and a red medical bag. A woman knelt beside my father while her partner opened the bag. “What is his name?” “Daniel Cross.” “His age?” “Fifty-eight.” “Does he have a known heart condition?” “Yes. A damaged valve. He takes medicine.” “What medicine?” “I don’t remember the names.” “Bring all of it.” I ran to his bedroom and pulled open the drawer beside his bed. Several bottles stood behind his old reading glasses. I swept them into my handbag and hurried back. The paramedics had placed small pads on my father’s chest. Wires connected them to a machine. The screen showed a moving green line. The woman checked his blood pressure. Her calm expression changed. “We need to move now.” “Is he having a heart attack?” “We need to get him to the hospital.” She did not answer my question. That frightened me more. They lifted him onto the stretcher. His eyes opened as they wheeled him through the sitting room. “Elena?” “I’m coming with you.” I followed them outside without locking the front door. The neighbours had gathered near the gate. Mrs Lewis from the next house covered her mouth with one hand. “What happened?” she asked. “I don’t know.” “I’ll lock your door,” she said. I nodded and climbed into the ambulance. The doors closed behind me. I sat beside the stretcher while the paramedics worked. One placed an oxygen mask over my father’s face. The other inserted a needle into his arm. The siren began again. My father turned his head toward me. His breathing fogged the clear mask. “I’m here,” I told him. He tried to raise his hand. I caught it. His palm felt damp. “You should have told me the pain was getting worse.” He closed his eyes. “How long has this been happening?” No answer. “Dad, how long?” His lips moved under the mask. I leaned closer. “Yesterday.” “You had chest pain yesterday?” He gave a weak nod. “And you said nothing?” “Didn’t want… to worry you.” Anger and fear twisted together inside me. “You collapsing on the kitchen floor is less worrying?” The paramedic glanced at me. “Keep him calm.” I swallowed the rest of my words. My father’s fingers tightened around mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. The machine beside him gave a sharp sound. The paramedic leaned over the screen. “His pressure is falling.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “Sir, stay with us.” She adjusted the oxygen and pushed medicine through the tube in his arm. The machine continued to beep. I pressed myself against the side of the ambulance so they could work. “What is happening?” Neither paramedic answered. The ambulance turned sharply, throwing my shoulder against the wall. My father’s eyes rolled upward. “Dad!” The woman touched his neck. “He has a pulse.” “Then why isn’t he answering?” “We’re almost there.” I watched his chest. It rose. Then fell. I counted every breath. One. Two. Three. I was afraid that if I stopped counting, he would stop breathing. The ambulance entered Hartwell Medical Centre through the emergency gate. The doors opened, and a team of nurses rushed forward. They pulled the stretcher out. I climbed down and followed. “Please wait outside,” a nurse said as they pushed him toward a pair of glass doors. “I’m his daughter.” “The doctors need space.” “I won’t get in the way.” “You cannot come inside.” The doors closed between us. For a second, I saw my father beneath the bright lights, surrounded by blue uniforms. Then a curtain hid him. A nurse handed me a clipboard. “I need you to complete these forms.” “Is he alive?” “The medical team is working on him.” “That isn’t what I asked.” She looked at me. “Yes, he is alive.” The word loosened something in my chest. I sat in one of the plastic chairs and tried to fill in the form. My name looked strange when I wrote it. Elena Cross. Relationship to patient: Daughter. Emergency contact: Elena Cross. There was no one else to write. My mother had died when I was six. My father had raised me alone. He had worked, cooked and sat beside me through every childhood fever. Now he was behind a glass door, and I could do nothing but answer questions on paper. A message came from my manager. You are late again. Are you coming to work? I stared at it. My father had collapsed, but the hotel still needed someone to carry trays and smile at guests. I typed: My father is in the emergency room. I cannot come now. The reply arrived a minute later. We will discuss your position later. I locked the screen. The doors opened, and a doctor stepped into the waiting area. He was tall and thin, with grey at the sides of his hair. He looked down at the file in his hand. “Family of Daniel Cross?” I stood. “I’m his daughter.” “I’m Dr Hart. I’m part of the cardiology team.” “Can I see him?” “In a moment. We need to talk first.” The words made my stomach tighten. “Is he going to die?” “We have stabilised him.” I released the breath trapped in my chest. “But his condition is serious,” he continued. “What happened?” “Your father has a damaged heart valve. From his records, it appears he has known about it for some time.” “He takes medicine.” “The medicine has been helping his heart manage the problem, but the valve has become much weaker. There is also pressure building around his heart.” I shook my head. “I don’t understand.” He pointed to the chair beside me. I did not sit. “Your father’s heart is struggling to pump blood through his body,” he said. “That is why he collapsed.” “Can you give him stronger medicine?” “We are giving him medication now, but it will only support him for a short time.” “What does he need?” The doctor’s eyes held mine. “An operation.” The word seemed to empty the room of sound. I looked through the glass doors. “How soon?” “As soon as possible.” “Today?” “We need to complete tests and prepare a surgical team.” “How much time do we have?” Dr Hart closed the file. “Based on his present condition, the operation must take place within three days.” My lips parted, but no sound came out. Three days. I counted them without meaning to. Today. Tomorrow. The day after. “What happens if it doesn’t?” I asked. The doctor did not look away. “His heart may fail completely.” My legs weakened, and I sat. “Can I see him?” “Yes, but only for a few minutes. He needs rest.” Dr Hart led me through the glass doors. The room smelled of medicine and something sharp I could not name. My father lay beneath a white sheet. Wires ran from his chest to a monitor. A clear mask covered part of his face. He looked smaller than he had that morning. I sat beside him and touched his hand. His eyes opened slowly. “Elena.” “I’m here.” “Home?” “We’re at Hartwell.” He tried to move, but pain crossed his face. “Don’t move.” His eyes searched mine. “You spoke to the doctor?” “Yes.” He watched me in silence. “You need an operation,” I said. His fingers went still. “They said it has to happen within three days.” He closed his eyes. “We can’t.” “We will.” “Elena—” “I said we will.” His eyes opened again. Fear filled them. Not fear of the operation. Something else. He caught my wrist and pulled me closer with the little strength he had left. “Listen to me.” “What is it?” “If they contact you, say no.” “Who?” His eyes shifted toward the door as if he expected someone to be standing there. “The Vale family.” The monitor beside him began to beep faster. I leaned closer. “Who are the Vales?” His grip tightened. “The people who will let me die before they help us.” Then the door behind me opened, and a nurse spoke in a quiet voice. “Miss Cross, someone is asking for you at reception.” “Who?” She looked at the message in her hand. “A representative from Vale Holdings.”