TRAPPED IN A MARRIAGE WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

Chapter Three: Not going Back

Kristy looked at me, something close to surprise crossing her face, though she recovered quickly.

She reached into her file bag without a word and held out the document.

I took it. Uncapped the pen. And signed my name before I could think too hard about what I was doing.

For Ivy.

There was no going back.

I stood there after the contract between us was signed and said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had already made the decision the moment I walked back into that hospital and saw my daughter lying there still.

Kristy broke the silence.

"Let's go save Ivy," she said.

We walked straight to the doctor's office.

"I'm ready," I told him. "You can go ahead with the surgery."

He looked briefly at Kristy, then back at me. He nodded.

"We'll begin within the hour," he said.

He called a nurse over, and the three of us stepped aside to handle the payment.

Kristy moved through it efficiently, speaking with the cashier and handling figures I had only ever seen on paper.

When she turned and asked for my bank details, I gave them without looking up.

I wasn't sure if it was shame or something else. The particular sting that comes with needing help you didn't ask for.

My phone buzzed before I finished the last digit.

An alert.

I looked at the screen and blinked. Then I looked again. The amount sitting in my account didn't look real. I checked it twice, slowly, like the numbers might rearrange themselves if I stared long enough.

They didn't.

It was real.

Whatever I had been about to say dissolved before it reached my lips.

Kristy's expression remained exactly as composed as it had been since we first met. No satisfaction. No warmth. Just calm.

"I've done my part," she said. "Now it's your turn, Ann." She picked up her bag. "You'll hear from us soon."

Before I could find any words, she was already walking away.

I let her go. I already signed the contract. The money was real. And somewhere down that corridor, my daughter was being prepared for surgery.

That was all that mattered.

I prayed quietly while they prepped the theater. Nothing formal, just the kind of prayer that comes from somewhere deep and wordless when you don't have enough language for what you're asking.

Then they took her in.

The wait was the longest hours of my life.

When the doctor finally came through those doors, I was already on my feet.

"The surgery went well," he said. "She's stable."

I exhaled so slowly it felt like I had been holding that breath the entire time.

They moved Ivy back to the ward. She didn't wake.

She looked too small in that bed, swallowed by the white sheets and wires, the steady beep of the machines the only proof she was still fighting.

I sat beside her

Just … sat there staring at her face to convince myself she was really okay.

Then I went home briefly, showered, packed essentials, and transferred the money to clear my debt. The moment it went through, something loosened in my chest.

One less thing.

I returned before nightfall and didn't leave.

The next morning, an unknown number woke me before I was ready. I ignored it once. It rang again. Then again. I answered.

"Good morning, Ann." A man's voice.

Measured, unhurried.

"Good morning. Who is this?"

A brief pause.

"One week, Ann," he said. "Then we move forward with the arrangements."

I am fully awake now. "My daughter just had surgery. She needs time."

"The wedding won't interfere with her recovery."

I opened my mouth, but he continued before I could.

"I'll be in touch. I hope Ivy heals quickly."

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone and looked at Ivy.

Could that have been him? The man in the photograph?

One week felt sudden. I exhaled and reached for the towel on the bedside table. Ivy needed to be cleaned. I focused on that.

I was midway through when I felt it.

Her fingers moved.

I froze. Then I gently grabbed Ivy's hand.

"Ivy? Baby, can you hear me?"

Her fingers twitched again, small but certain.

I was out of the room before I had consciously decided to move.

The doctor came quickly, examined her carefully, checked her eyes and the machines. By the time he stepped back, her eyes were open, heavy, unfocused, but open.

He smiled. "She's recovering well."

I pressed my hand over my mouth and breathed through it.

Thank God.

After he left, I turned back to Ivy. She looked exhausted and small, but her eyes found my face and stayed there.

"You did so well," I whispered. "Mummy's right here."

Her fingers curled weakly around mine.

The days that followed felt different.

Slower.

Ivy improved, little by little.

The color came back to her face first.

Then she started eating, just a few bites at a time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse and fragile.

But somehow, it still hurts to hear it.

My debts were gone.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, nobody was calling me. No bills, I couldn't face it. No weight pressing down the moment I opened my eyes.

I let myself breathe.

I need to start something, I thought one afternoon, watching Ivy sleep.

Something small. Something of mine.

Life had to keep moving.

I stepped out one evening to get something to eat, I had barely eaten all day.

I almost made it to the exit.

Three luxury cars were parked outside, gleaming and deliberate. The kind that didn't belong in a hospital car park by accident.

And standing in front of them was Kristy.

She walked toward me slowly, a smile on her lips that didn't reach her eyes. No greeting. No small talk. She stopped directly in front of me.

"I hope you're ready, Miss Ann Nickolas," she said. "It's time."

I blinked. "Time? What do you—"

Then it landed.

A week. It had already been a week, more than a week if I am honest. Somewhere in the exhaustion and relief and long hospital nights, I had completely lost track.

My throat tightened. "You could have called first. The man who rang said he'd reach out again.

There was no warning—"

"Ann." Her voice was calm but final.

"We're not here

To renegotiate what we have already agreed on."

I felt quiet.

Then softly, "What about Ivy?"

Kristy's expression shifted just slightly.

What she said next stopped me completely.