The Billionaire's Runaway Nurse

4

The phone, balanced precariously on the edge of the table, reverberated with a voice that was suddenly as far away as it was impossibly near. My father’s words roared through the speaker, cutting through the silence of the dimly lit room with a fury I had never imagined. "What the hell?!"

A chill rippled down my spine, not because of his rage, but because of the laughter—deep, dark, and almost gleeful—that came from the man sitting across from me. The same man who, moments ago, had bought me as if I were nothing more than a commodity at a twisted auction.

He was enjoying this.

"I want my daughter back!" My father’s voice thundered, the desperation woven between the words catching me off guard. "I’ll send you the money, or double it. Just give her back!"

I stared at the phone, my mind reeling. My father, the man who had been so indifferent to my existence, was now willing to part with his fortune—for me? I wanted to believe it, to let it stitch together the broken pieces of my heart. Could it be possible? Could he care?

"Fascinating," the man across from me drawled, his voice curling around the edges of my father’s panic like smoke. He leaned back, lounging as though we were discussing the weather. "You want her back because I bought her. And yet, you're naive enough to think I’ll just hand her over." His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with malice. "The fun has only just begun."

"You think this is a game?" My father’s voice crackled through the speaker, louder now, vibrating with barely contained rage. "You think you can play with me because you have her? You’re a fool. Give her back, or I swear you’ll regret it."

Another laugh—cold and cutting. The man beside me didn't bother responding further. He simply pressed the red button on the phone, cutting the call abruptly, leaving the room steeped in a heavy silence. He had hung up on my father. He had hung up on him. I could already imagine my father’s face, livid and distorted with rage. He would be beside himself by now.

"That was... invigorating," my captor mused, stretching lazily as if he’d just woken from a satisfying nap. He tilted his head toward me, amused by my wide eyes. "Did that scare you?"

"You shouldn’t have done that," I whispered, my voice trembling. It wasn’t a threat. I didn’t want to see what my father might do next.

His gaze sharpened, locking onto me. "You’re giving me advice? You, of all people, should know your father better than anyone." He scoffed, his lip curling. "Or perhaps you don't know him at all."

I flinched. It was true, wasn’t it? Had I ever really known my father? A man who hadn’t hesitated to auction me off, yet now seemed willing to bargain for my return? The pieces didn’t fit. I’d spent years convincing myself that he cared for nothing but his money. Now, here he was, willing to lose it all for me. Or... was it something else entirely?

"You think your father loves you?" My captor's voice cut into my thoughts, his tone almost mocking. "Tell me, what does he love more than money?"

I blinked at him, the question knocking around in my mind with no clear answer. I wanted to protest. To say something. But what could I say? Nothing had ever been more important to him than wealth—certainly not my mother, nor my brother Liam, and certainly not me. He hadn’t even attended my mother’s funeral. I could still remember the cold, empty space where he should have been, his absence explained away by some million-dollar meeting. And now, I had been auctioned off as if I were nothing more than another financial transaction. No, love was not a currency my father dealt in.

My silence must have been answer enough because the man smirked, clearly satisfied. "That’s right. He doesn’t love you." He paused, letting the words sink in. "But do you know what he hates?"

I frowned, confusion furrowing my brow. Hate? Sure, my father hated disobedience—any slight against his authority was met with cold fury. But that wasn’t it. His voice on the phone had carried something else, something deeper than anger. What was it?

"He hates losing to me." The man’s voice was triumphant, tinged with dark satisfaction. "That’s what this is all about. Your father can’t stand the thought of losing—especially not to me. And that’s exactly what he’s done, over and over again." He leaned in closer, his eyes burning into mine. "Your father, the great Richard Hart, hates Bryan Miller more than anything in the world."

Bryan Miller. The name hit me like a bolt of lightning. I jerked my head up, eyes widening. Bryan Miller. I had heard that name before—heard it screamed through clenched teeth, followed by the sound of shattered glass and splintered wood. My father’s study had been the site of countless outbursts, his rage barely contained as he muttered Miller's name like a curse. Bryan Miller, the man whose very existence seemed to ignite my father’s worst impulses. I had dismissed it all as business rivalry back then, not understanding the depth of my father’s loathing. But now...

Now I was staring into the eyes of the man who had driven my father to the brink of madness.

"You should let me go," I blurted out, my voice shaky but insistent. "Take the money. My father isn’t someone you want to cross. You don’t know what he’s capable of—he can... he can have people killed."

Bryan’s eyes darkened for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. "Oh, I know." His voice was quiet now, almost dangerous. "I know exactly what your father is capable of."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, suddenly, he was in my face, his features twisted with bitterness. "But shouldn’t you be more concerned about your own survival?" His words dripped with venom, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "You’re the one with his filthy blood in your veins."

I recoiled, stung by the insult. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back. My father had never been kind—never—but to hear such hatred aimed at me, from a stranger no less, felt like a new kind of wound. Bryan must have seen the tears glistening because his expression softened for a fleeting second, a flash of something almost like regret passing through his eyes. But just as quickly, his face hardened again, the moment gone.

"Call Mrs. Green," he ordered, his voice clipped and distant now. The man standing behind me moved to comply, his presence a constant shadow I couldn’t escape.

I kept my head down, struggling to keep my composure. I didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not like this. Not after everything. But the weight of the situation was crushing me, and every second that ticked by felt like a lifetime.

"Bryan, you called for me?" A woman’s voice broke through the tension, and I turned slightly to see her—Mrs. Green, a stout woman with graying hair and kind eyes, though they were clouded now with worry.

"From tomorrow," Bryan said, his voice cold and commanding, "she’ll be doing the cleaning. Everything. My clothes, the house, the servants' quarters—make sure she’s kept busy. But don’t let her into the kitchen or my study. I wouldn’t want her poisoning us." He shot me a glance, the smirk returning to his lips. "And make sure she’s fed. I won’t have anyone starving in my house."

Mrs. Green nodded, though her eyes flickered with concern as she glanced at me. For a brief moment, I wondered if she might object, but then she simply bowed her head and murmured, "Yes, sir."

Bryan waved his hand dismissively. "Take her to where she belongs."

Before I could react, the man who had dragged me from the car was back, gripping my arm with rough fingers and pulling me to my feet. I stumbled as he yanked me out of the room, down a long corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly. Finally, we reached a set of stairs that led down into the darkness. The basement.

He opened a door, pushed me inside, and untied my hands. The dim light flickered above me as the door slammed shut, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing through the small, dust-choked room. I coughed, the dust filling my lungs, making my eyes water. The room was small and barren, the only furniture a threadbare rug on the cold stone floor.

I sank to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest as the tears I had fought so hard to hold back finally broke free. My sobs filled the silence of the basement, each one a painful reminder of how far I had fallen. And as the darkness closed in around me, I couldn't shake the gnawing thought that maybe, just maybe, this was where I had always belonged.