THE SERVANT HUSBAND IS THE QUADRILLIONAIRE HEIR

Chapter 2

I crashed through the rooftop door and stumbled down the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs.

 The elevator felt like it took forever, each floor passing in agonizing slow motion.

When the doors finally opened on the ground floor, I saw the paramedics wheeling in a stretcher. 

My breath caught in my throat as I recognized the familiar gray hair peeking out from under the blood-stained sheet.

"Mom!" I rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. It was so cold, so fragile.

Her eyes fluttered open, barely focusing on my face. "Michael..." she whispered, her voice like autumn leaves.

"Don't talk, Mom. Save your strength. The doctors are going to fix you up, okay?"

She squeezed my hand with what little strength she had left. "I'm sorry, son. I couldn't... I couldn't be a burden to you anymore."

"Don't say that!" Tears streamed down my face. "You're not a burden. You're all I have. You're my mother."

"I know you're not my real son," she breathed, "but you've been... the best thing in my life. I'm so proud of you."

My chest felt like it was caving in. 

This woman had found me as a scared eight-year-old in that orphanage, had worked double shifts at the diner to put food on our table, had held me when I cried and cheered when I graduated.

 She was more real to me than any blood relative could ever be.

"You ARE my real mother," I choked out. "The only one that matters."

Dr. Peterson appeared beside the stretcher, his face as cold as ever. "Mr. Thompson, we need to discuss the financial situation."

"Not now," I snapped. "Can't you see she's—"

"The debt remains, regardless of her condition," he interrupted.

 "Eighty-seven thousand dollars, plus interest. And now we'll have additional emergency care costs."

I stared at him in disbelief. 

Mom was barely clinging to life, and this bastard was talking about money.

"If she dies," he continued with clinical detachment, "the debt doesn't disappear. And if you can't pay, well... the hospital has ways of recovering costs. Organ donation, for instance. Very valuable, even from elderly patients."

My blood turned to lava. "You sick freak. You're talking about harvesting her organs?"

"I'm talking about fiscal responsibility." His smile was razor-thin.

 "You remember our previous conversations about... additional fees? I warned you there would be consequences for your refusal to cooperate."

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. All those times he'd cornered me in hallways, demanding extra payments under the table.

 I'd worked as a janitor, a delivery driver, even cleaned toilets at night—anything to scrape together money for his bribes. 

But when I finally said no, when I couldn't bleed myself dry anymore, he'd promised to make me pay.

This was his revenge.

"You bastard," I snarled. "This is because I wouldn't pay your dirty bribes anymore, isn't it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." His eyes glittered with malice. "Security!"

Two massive guards appeared instantly, grabbing my arms before I could react.

"Get him away from the patient," Dr. Peterson ordered. "He's becoming hysterical."

"No! Let me go! She's my mother!"

The guards dragged me backward as another team began wheeling Mom's stretcher toward the elevator.

 I fought against their grip, but they were too strong.

"Please!" I screamed. "Don't take her! I'll get the money somehow!"

Dr. Peterson walked up to me, his face inches from mine.

 "You had your chance, boy. Now you'll learn what happens when you cross me."

One of the guards drove his fist into my stomach.

I doubled over, gasping for air, but they hauled me upright again.

"Stop it!" I wheezed. "She's dying!"

"Then you should have thought of that sooner," the doctor sneered.

Another punch, this time to my ribs.

 Pain exploded through my chest, and I tasted blood in my mouth. 

The fluorescent lights blurred above me as my vision started to fade.

Just as the guard raised his fist again, the automatic doors burst open with a mechanical whoosh.

A convoy of black luxury cars had pulled up outside—sleek BMWs and Mercedes that looked like they cost more than most people's houses.

 Car doors slammed in perfect synchronization, and a formation of men in dark suits stepped out, moving with military precision.

They weren't just bodyguards.

 These were professionals—the kind of security only the ultra-wealthy could afford.

Behind them walked a woman who commanded the space around her like gravity itself. 

She was tall, elegant, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than my annual salary.

 Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes were like chips of ice. 

Everything about her radiated power and control.

She strode through the hospital lobby as if she owned the building, her heels clicking against the polished floor with mechanical precision. 

The bodyguards flanked her, and even Dr. Peterson's security guards loosened their grip on me, suddenly uncertain.

The woman's gaze swept the scene—me, bloodied and held by the guards; 

Dr. Peterson standing smugly beside Mom's stretcher; the chaos and desperation written across everything.

Then she walked straight toward me.

When she was close enough that I could smell her expensive perfume, she did something that shattered every assumption I'd had about this moment.

She bowed.

Not a casual nod, but a deep, formal bow that spoke of genuine respect and remorse.

"I apologize for arriving so late," she said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Please forgive me."