Married to the billionaire by contract

“El, they called to say the surgery’s been canceled,” she said, the words slick and impossible. She heard her own voice and for a second it sounded like someone else’s in a room full of glass. “They said unless the full payment’s made, they can’t— they can’t schedule him.”

Ethan’s face drained. For a breath, the room was only the two of them and the sound of their separate breaths. “That can’t—” he began, and stopped, because he knew just like she did how the world could close with one phrase.

Elena stood up abruptly, the chair scraping, the small sound tearing the quiet. “I’ll call them back,” she said, going to the phone like to a thing she could fix with a tool. She dialed and held the line against the tightness in her throat, the diner’s night still in her bones.

“Billing department, this is Carla—” a tired voice answered, and for a second Elena wanted to cry from the rawness in that greeting, because it sounded like another person her age who had learned how the world expected her to hold steady.

“This is Elena Carter,” she said quickly. “I’m calling about Ethan Carter’s surgery. I got your message—there must be some mistake. Is there— can we get an extension?”

There was a pause on the other end, and the pause had the weight of a locked door. “Ms. Carter, I’m so sorry, but policy states we need full payment before we can reschedule. We can— we can put you on a waiting list, but until payment is made—”

“No,” she said, before thinking. “No waiting list. He needs it now.” Her voice rose, raw and high, the kind of sound she had tried to chew down for months. “Listen to me— he’s stable now, but he’s not out of the woods. We need to keep him on the list. Please. I’ll— I have some money coming in. I just— just give me more time.”

Carla’s voice softened because policy did not come from a heart, but from rules that sat on a desk and were written by people who never had to trade sleep for medicine. “I understand, Ms. Carter. I truly do. Unfortunately, the board informed us that all outstanding balances over thirty days must be cleared before we can approve surgery dates. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Elena whispered. Her hands slipped to the phone as though the plastic itself might anchor her. “There’s got to be something. I can— I can bring a deposit.”

“We can accept a deposit as a good faith, but it must be at least fifty percent. The remainder must be cleared prior to surgery.”

Fifty percent. Elena’s jaw clenched. She thought of every shift she’d worked, every double shift she’d taken to keep their lights on. She counted the money in her head—rent, the electric bill, the money set aside for Ethan’s medicine—and it still fell short. Her throat closed with the shape of impossible numbers.

“Is there… someone higher I can speak to?” she asked, voice small. “Please. Any program—any—”

Carla was silent for a beat that felt like a hallway—long and full of doors Elena could not open. “I can’t promise anything beyond what I’ve said. I’m sorry, Ms. Carter.”

The words were a blade that slipped and stayed. Elena felt as though the floor had tilted. “Please,” she said again, softer now, because the louder she demanded, the less people listened. “Please. Ethan needs this surgery. He’s—he’s my brother. He’s not— he’s only nineteen. He’s supposed to be here with me.”

There was a rustle like a chair being moved on the other end. “I’m so sorry,” Carla repeated. “If you can get the deposit in today, we’ll do what we can to keep him on schedule. Otherwise, I’m afraid we have to remove him from the list.”

“For today?” Elena asked, the edges of words fraying. Her hands trembled. “So if I don’t—”

“If payment isn’t received today, we can’t guarantee a surgery date.” The voice was mechanical now, the warmth gone. “I’m so sorry.”

Elena closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool wall. She thought of Ethan’s laugh, his cartoons, the way he chewed his nails when he was nervous, the way he’d hugged her after the last hospital visit and whispered, “Don’t worry, Lena.” She thought of parents who were gone and left them both with memories and bills. She felt the hollow yawning under her ribs where sleep should be.

“Okay,” she said finally. Her voice came out small and paper-thin. “Okay. Thank you.” She didn’t have the deposit. She didn’t have fifty percent. She had the whole of a month’s wages and the little jar with a few coins they kept for emergencies. They were not enough.

She hung up the phone and looked at Ethan, who watched her with that brave, frightened face. “They canceled the surgery if we don’t pay,” she said. The words hit the room like cold water.

Ethan’s hand went for hers, fingers thin and warm. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, quick and fierce. “We always do.”

But Elena had the sound of the billing woman’s voice in her ears—the policy, the deadline, the impossible number—and it was louder than hope. The apartment pressed around them, small and breathing. Elena felt something like an animal’s wild fear rise in her chest, raw and urgent.

Her phone buzzed again. Another call. The hospital, she knew in the hollow of her bones. She answered it before she could think, because answering felt like doing something—anything. The line clicked, and she heard the same tired voice.

“Elena?” the woman said. “I’m sorry to call again—”

Elena squeezed her phone so hard the plastic creaked. “Yes? Did— did you find—”

There was a pause, and in the silence she could hear the tick of the radiator, the city moving, Ethan’s breath. The woman on the phone said, “Ms. Carter, I don’t have any better news. If the deposit isn’t received by the end of today, we will have to remove Ethan from the surgery schedule.”

Elena’s knees felt like they might buckle. She gripped the phone with both hands, the screen bright and small against the dark of the room. Her throat closed. There was a high, thin sound she almost made—half a sob, half a laugh—and then her fingers let go.

The phone slipped from her hand.

It hit the floor with a soft, hollow sound and skittered away into the shadow under the couch, the line still open and the woman’s voice trailing into nothing. Elena stared at the place where the phone had been, breath catching like something too big for her chest. The word “canceled” echoed in her head and turned into a door she had no key for.

She crouched, hand reaching for the phone, but for a moment everything felt unreal—like a photograph of a life that could be edited, changed, made over. She thought of Ethan asleep on the couch, of his trusting face, and felt the world narrow down to a single point: she had to find a way, somehow, or lose him.

The city outside went on, indifferent, lights blinking. Elena dragged the phone out and the hospital line was silent. Her own breath sounded loud. She looked at Ethan and then at the small pile of coins she’d been keeping under a shoebox for emergencies. She felt the sharp, painful edge of an impossible choice close in.

She picked the phone up and dialed the number again, though she knew what she would hear. The ringing seemed to stretch time thin, and then—before the voice could come back on the line—her phone vibrated with an incoming call from an unknown number. Her thumb hovered over the screen, and the room felt suddenly very small, very loud,

and very heavy, the future balanced on a thin, trembling hinge.