The Billionaire's Runaway Nurse

7

Bryan's POV:

I sat at the dining table, the screen of my phone glowing faintly in the early morning light. I couldn’t help but scroll through the messages from Mr. Smith again, savoring each word, each syllable that reflected his growing unease. The thought of him, pacing back and forth in some grand office, hands wringing in frustration, brought me a strange sort of peace. If only he knew. If only he knew how much deeper my satisfaction ran knowing he was alive—forced to breathe the same air, knowing what he’d done.

Killing him? Too easy. Too quick. That would let him off the hook. No, I wanted him to suffer, to die slowly, day by day. A death that lingered in the corners of his life, gnawing at him with every memory of what he did to me and my family. I wanted him to feel it—every moment, every breath, every heartbeat a reminder of his betrayal. And yet, my mind kept spiraling back to the one thing I couldn’t shake—the man. That man—him—the one who...

"Bryan!" Mrs. Green’s voice cut through the fog of my thoughts.

I looked up, realizing I’d been staring at my phone screen without really seeing it. Her expression was soft, concerned, like a mother worried about her child’s sleepless night.

"Are you alright, dear? Did you sleep poorly?" Her voice carried a tenderness that, on most days, would have been comforting. Not today. Not with all this weighing on my mind.

"I’m fine," I muttered, rubbing my temples. The memories, vivid and sharp, sliced through me like glass. How could I not think about them? How could I not relive that day, over and over again, the way those events unfolded like a cruel play staged for an audience of one? But I couldn’t let them win. Snap out of it, Bryan, I told myself. These memories, they’ll make you weak. You have to be stronger than that. Stronger than him.

Mrs. Green placed a cup of coffee and the morning paper in front of me, her fingers lingering on the edge of the table as if she wanted to say more but held herself back.

"Your coffee and the newspaper, as always," she said, a faint smile on her lips.

I forced a smile in return, not because I felt it, but because I didn’t want her to worry. If she told Grandpa that I was off, he’d fret, and the last thing I wanted was for the only family I had left to lose sleep over me.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she asked again, her tone insistent, a motherly intuition that saw through the façade I was putting on.

"Yeah," I replied, making an effort to keep my voice steady. "I'm fine." The smile felt foreign on my face, strained. I didn’t want to concern her—she’d only rush to tell Grandpa, and then the whole thing would spiral out of control. I couldn’t afford to have them worry. Not now.

I picked up the newspaper, trying to lose myself in its pages, but the words swam before my eyes. My mind kept returning to her—the girl.

"What’s that girl up to?" I asked, flipping the page and scanning headlines without absorbing any of them. It was already 8:30. She should have been awake and working by now. The day starts early in this house, and she knows that.

Mrs. Green’s brow furrowed slightly. "You mean Mia?"

"Who else would I be talking about?" I replied, a sharpness creeping into my voice that I hadn’t intended. Of course I was talking about Mia. The girl who... who had somehow become tied to all of this. The girl whose presence unsettled me in ways I didn’t want to admit.

"Well... I think she’s probably still—"

"Still sleeping, isn't she?" I interrupted, folding the paper and tossing it aside. I knew it. I knew she was still curled up in whatever miserable excuse for a bed I’d left for her, probably dreaming, oblivious to the world outside. "I’ll go wake her."

Mrs. Green blinked, startled by my sudden decision. "No, no, I can do it. You don’t need to—"

"I’ll do it," I repeated, standing. My voice was firm, too firm, maybe. But I didn’t care. She needed to understand. I wasn’t going to bully her—not today, at least. But she had to learn. This wasn’t some comfortable little life she could coast through. This wasn’t her daddy’s estate. She was here to work.

Mrs. Green gave me a nervous smile, nodding but clearly unsure of what to make of my sudden mood shift.

"I won’t bully her," I said, shaking my head at her hesitation. The corners of her mouth lifted in a relieved smile, but there was still that edge of uncertainty in her eyes.

The door to Mia's room was unlocked, something I hadn’t anticipated. Mrs. Green must have tried to wake her earlier and given up. I knocked softly at first, then louder when there was no response. Nothing. Just silence.

I pushed the door open, half expecting to see her lazily stretching or rubbing sleep from her eyes. But what I found instead made me stop cold.

There she was, lying on that wretched rug, the one I had told Mrs. Green to leave for her—a bitter reminder of what her father had taken from mine. She looked so small, so fragile on that threadbare scrap of fabric. A part of me—a part I hated—felt a pang of guilt, seeing her like this. She didn’t know, after all. She had no idea what her father had done, what he had set into motion. But that didn’t erase the fact that she had lived a life of luxury, a life bought with stolen money, at least half of it.

"Hey! Wake up!" I called out, my voice sharper than I’d intended. Seeing her there, like that, with her back to me, stirred something in me. It wasn’t pity—not exactly. But it was something close to it. I hated it. I hated feeling anything for her.

She didn’t stir.

I moved closer, her breathing drawing my attention. Something about it was... off. It was too labored, too shallow. Like she was gasping for air. A sense of dread began to creep over me, one I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.

I knelt down, hesitating for a split second before reaching out to turn her toward me. The moment I saw her face, my heart stopped.

Her skin was pale, far too pale. And her breathing—it wasn’t just shallow. It was desperate. Each breath a struggle. Panic shot through me, electric and wild.

"Mia!" I shook her shoulders, the coolness of her skin against my fingers unnerving. "Mia! Wake up!" I shook her harder, as if I could jolt her back into consciousness through sheer force of will. But nothing changed. Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted, but no words came out. Only the sound of her ragged breaths.

I didn’t think. My body moved before my mind could catch up, lifting her into my arms, the weight of her limp form sending fresh waves of panic through me. I raced out of her room and up the stairs, barely registering Mrs. Green’s startled gasp as I passed her in the hall.

In my room, I laid her down on the bed, covering her with the blanket in some futile attempt to warm her. My voice shook as I called out for Mrs. Green again, louder this time, desperate. The door flew open and she rushed in, followed by Peter, my assistant, his face pale with worry.

"Bryan! What’s wrong?" Mrs. Green asked, rushing to the bed.

"She’s not okay," I managed to say, my voice sounding foreign, distant. "She’s not okay, and I don’t know what to do."

Mrs. Green moved to Mia’s side, her face crumpling as she took in the sight of the girl on the bed, pale and gasping for air. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t hesitate. She pressed a hand to Mia’s forehead, her lips moving in silent prayer.

"Mr. Anderson will be here soon," Peter said from behind me, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "I told him to hurry."

I nodded, though the words barely registered. Jackson Anderson. My oldest friend. A doctor. Why hadn’t I thought to call him the moment I found her like this? Why had I wasted time, standing there, doing nothing?

"Mr. Miller, you should sit down," Peter said gently, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You’re shaking."

I hadn’t realized. My entire body was trembling.

How did this happen? How did she end up like this? It didn’t make sense. None of it did. Yes, I’d been hard on her—cruel, even—but I never wanted this. Never this. How could I have let it come to this? I wanted her to hurt, yes. I wanted her to understand the weight of her father’s sins, but I didn’t want her to suffer like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to die.

Not her.