"Arthur. Please, call me Arthur."
This dying man had been watching me far more closely than I ever thought.
The next morning, the hospital called again.
"Ma'am, Noah's latest test results came back. We need to move the surgery date up and begin pre-op treatment immediately. Can you confirm payment by Friday?"
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.
"Friday? I— I need more time."
But there wasn't any more time. I hung up and sank onto the marble floor of Arthur's hallway. He found me there ten minutes later, his cane tapping softly against the tiles.
"We need to move the surgery date up."
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"My son. They're moving the surgery up. I can't — I don't have the money. I'll never have it."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said something so outrageous I thought I'd heard wrong.
"Marry me. Your son gets his surgery, and I get a wife my children can't control."
I shook my head, tears spilling over. "I won't be that woman."
"Not even to save your son?"
"What's wrong?"
I left the mansion that night with his words echoing in my head.
Around midnight, I had to rush Noah to the hospital. The doctors stabilized him, but their warning was clear: the surgery couldn’t wait much longer.
I called Arthur from the hospital parking lot that morning.
"If I say yes, the money goes to the hospital today."
"Done."
"Then yes. I will marry you."
Around midnight, I had to rush to the hospital with Noah.
The hospital admitted Noah for pre-op treatment that afternoon. Soon, the color was back in his cheeks, and the doctor said he could attend the wedding as long as he didn't stay long and returned afterward.
White roses lined the mansion's grand staircase. Reporters pressed against the gates, snapping photos of "the millionaire's mystery bride."
