THE SERVANT HUSBAND IS THE QUADRILLIONAIRE HEIR

MICHAEL'S POV

I gripped my phone with trembling fingers, my heart pounding as I dialed Sarah's number. Mom was lying in that hospital bed, pale and barely breathing, and the doctors said we were out of time.

"Please pick up, please pick up," I whispered, listening to the rings.

Finally, someone answered. But it wasn't Sarah's voice.

"Well, well, if it isn't the pathetic husband calling," came Derek Manning's smug voice through the speaker.

My blood turned to ice. "Where's Sarah? I need to speak with my wife."

"Oh, she's a little... busy right now. Taking a nice hot shower, actually." His laugh made my skin crawl. "What do you want, loser? Let me guess—begging for money again?"

"Derek, this is serious. My mother needs surgery today, and I—"

"Your precious mommy?" He snorted with contempt. "You know what I think? They should just throw the old hag out on the street. Let her die like the worthless trash she is."

Rage exploded in my chest. "You sick bastard! Put Sarah on the phone right now!"

"I don't think so, buddy. See, Sarah's finally realized what a real man looks like. You've been married for three years, and you've never even touched her, have you?" His voice dripped with satisfaction. "But don't worry—I'm taking very good care of her. Her skin is so soft, so smooth. I plan to enjoy every inch of her body tonight."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in disbelief, my hands shaking with fury. Today was our anniversary. Our third wedding anniversary, and my wife was with another man.

I immediately called back. It rang and rang, but no one answered. I tried again. And again.

"Damn it!" I shouted, nearly throwing the phone against the wall.

I wanted to storm over to wherever they were, to confront them both, to make Derek pay for every filthy word he'd said. But then I remembered where I was—standing in the sterile hallway of Metropolitan General Hospital, where my mother lay dying.

The doctor's words echoed in my mind: "If payment isn't received by five o'clock today, we'll have no choice but to discharge her."

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Mom needed me. Everything else would have to wait.

I found Dr. Peterson in his office, hunched over paperwork. He looked up when I knocked, and his expression immediately hardened.

"Mr. Thompson. I assume you're here about the payment?"

"Dr. Peterson, please. I just need a little more time. Maybe a week, two at most. I'm trying to get the money together, but—"

"We've had this conversation before." He set down his pen with an annoyed sigh. "This hospital isn't a charity. Your mother has been here for two months without payment. We've been more than patient."

"She'll die if you discharge her now. You know that."

"That's not my problem. It's yours." His cold stare felt like a slap. "You should have thought about that before you decided to play house with that rich girl's family."

Heat flooded my face. Everyone knew about my situation—how I'd married into the Fletcher family, how I lived in their house like some kind of servant. The humiliation never got easier.

"Please," I said quietly. "She's all I have."

Dr. Peterson was about to respond when shouting erupted from somewhere down the hall. Nurses were running, and over the intercom came an urgent announcement: "Code Blue, rooftop. Code Blue, rooftop."

A terrible dread settled in my stomach. Without another word to the doctor, I ran toward the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time until I reached the roof access.

A crowd had gathered near the edge of the building. Paramedics were already there, but I could see from their posture that it was too late. Someone was lying motionless on the concrete below.

"What happened?" I gasped to a nearby nurse.

She turned to me with sad eyes. "A patient jumped. An older woman from the cancer ward. I think her name was... Thompson?"

The world tilted sideways. My legs gave out, and I fell to my knees on the rough rooftop surface.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no..."