My Fake Husband Is A Secret Billionaire

Chloe's frantic, sobbing voice erupted from the tiny speaker, loud enough for Caspian to hear across the table. "Clara! It's Mom! She collapsed in the kitchen! There was so much blood from her nose, Clara, she wouldn't wake up!" Clara stomach plummeted. She dropped her half-eaten burger onto the ceramic plate with a loud clatter. "Where are you?" Clara demanded, her voice trembling with rising panic. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. "Which hospital?" "Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills," Chloe stammers out between sobs. "The ambulance just brought us in. Please hurry!" "I'm on my way," Clara said, hanging up the phone. She stood up so fast her knees knocked hard against the underside of the table, rattling the silverware. She looked at Caspian, her eyes wide with terror. "I'm so sorry. There's a family medical emergency. My mother..." Caspian stood up immediately. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and threw it onto the table. "I'll drive you. Let's go." They rushed out of the diner and into the Maybach. Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He sped through the heavy Los Angeles traffic with practiced, aggressive precision, weaving between cars. They arrived at the emergency entrance of Cedars-Sinai. Before the car even fully stopped, Clara pushed the door open and sprinted through the sliding glass doors into the chaotic ER waiting room. Caspian followed at a slower, measured pace. He instructed Arthur to park the car and wait, his dark eyes tracking Clara's panicked movements. Clara found Chloe crying in a plastic chair in the waiting room. She pulled her younger sister into a tight, desperate hug. A nurse in blue scrubs, holding a tablet, approached them. Her name tag read Brenda Walsh. "Family of Angela Hayes?" "I'm her daughter," Clara said quickly, stepping forward. Brenda led them down a quiet hallway to a small consultation room. She closed the door. "Your mother suffered a severe seizure. The scans show a large, aggressive tumor pressing against her frontal lobe." Clara felt the blood drain from her face. The room seemed to tilt. "She requires emergency surgery to relieve the pressure and remove the mass," Brenda continued softly. "It needs to happen within the next forty-eight hours, or the damage will be irreversible. Dr. Evans will be here shortly to discuss the specific surgical risks, but a financial coordinator has already flagged your mother's file." Clara swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. "Okay. Do it. Please, schedule it." Brenda hesitated, looking down at her tablet. "Ms. Hayes, your mother does not have premium insurance. She only has basic state coverage. For a specialized neurosurgery of this magnitude, hospital policy requires an upfront deposit before we can officially reserve the operating room." Clara's stomach twisted into a tight knot. "How much?" "The preliminary estimate is two hundred thousand dollars," Brenda quoted softly. Clara stopped breathing. The number rang in her ears like a physical blow. Two hundred thousand dollars. It might as well have been two hundred million. Brenda allowed them into the ICU room for a brief visit. Angela was awake, looking pale, frail, and furious. As soon as Clara stepped to the bedside, Angela snapped at her. "Well? Did they tell you? How are you going to pay for this, Clara?" Clara bit her lip. "Mom, I'm trying to figure it out. It's a lot of money." Angela's eyes narrowed, filled with toxic resentment. "I took you in when you were a worthless foster kid! I fed you! I housed you! You owe me your life, Clara! If you let me die because you're too busy playing dress-up in Hollywood, I will curse you from the grave!" Clara endured the verbal abuse, her nails digging into her palms. "I will find the money, Mom. I promise." Clara stepped out of the room and into the sterile white corridor. She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. She stared at the $5,000 Caspian had transferred her. It was only a one fortieth of what she needed. She leaned against the wall and started making frantic phone calls. She called her agent, old directors she had worked with, and wealthy acquaintances. She begged for loans, promising to work for free for years. One by one, they all rejected her. They cited her lack of recent major roles, the risk, the bad economy. Clara's legs gave out. She slid down the cold hospital wall, sitting on the hard linoleum floor. She buried her face in her hands, completely crushed by the weight of the massive financial shortfall. She was entirely hopeless. A pair of polished brown dress shoes stepped into her field of vision. Clara looked up. Standing over her, looking down with deep concern, was Nathan Caldwell. He was a handsome, young doctor, and the son of the hospital's director.