Chapter 15: A Wife's First Request

POV: IVY

The first thing I asked my billionaire husband for was not jewelry, a car, or a larger room. It was money to keep my grandmother alive.

I stood by the window of my guest suite at seven in the morning, holding my phone tightly to my ear. The autumn sun had barely pierced the heavy grey fog hanging over the mansion's grounds.

“Miss Ivy,” the hospital administrator’s voice sounded crisp through the receiver. “The initial trust transfer cleared the emergency ICU fees, but the specialist team has scheduled the secondary procedure for next week. The remaining medical authorization forms require either your signature as the primary guarantor or direct confirmation from the funding account.”

“Direct confirmation?” I asked, my grip tightening on the smooth plastic of my phone. “My mother hasn't routed the remaining balance yet?”

“Mrs. Evelyn Sterling’s office requested a delay on the secondary transfer until the end of the month,” the administrator explained politely. “However, the medical board cannot order the specialized equipment without guaranteed clearance by Friday.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Evelyn was holding the funding back intentionally, keeping a leash around my neck to ensure I didn't step out of line during these first crucial weeks of the marriage. She wanted me desperate, compliant, and constantly reminded of who held Grandmother’s life in her hands.

I hung up the phone, took three slow, steady breaths, and unbolted my bedroom door.

I walked down the long, silent corridor of the east wing toward Michael’s private study on the ground floor. The house was immaculate, smelling faintly of citrus polish and fresh lilies, but it felt entirely devoid of warmth. When I reached the heavy double mahogany doors of his study, I didn't hesitate. I knocked twice.

“Come in,” his deep, smooth voice echoed from inside.

I pushed the door open. Michael sat behind a massive dark walnut desk, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit jacket with the top button of his crisp white shirt uncollared. A sleek laptop, three open financial ledgers, and a steaming cup of black coffee occupied his workspace. He didn't look up immediately, his eyes scanning a sheet of foreign market figures before he finally raised his gaze to meet mine.

His stormy gray eyes were cool, analytical, and completely unreadable.

“Gemma,” he said, his voice flat. “I have a board call in ten minutes. What do you need?”

I stepped into the room, keeping my spine straight and my hands folded neatly in front of me, adopting the calm, unbothered posture I had practiced endlessly in the mirror.

“I need to make a request regarding the financial terms of our agreement,” I said, getting straight to the point.

Michael leaned back in his leather chair, intertwining his long fingers over his lap. A faint, mocking shadow of a smirk touched the corner of his lips. “Already? I assumed your mother provided you with an allowance prior to the wedding.”

“This isn't about an allowance,” I replied evenly, ignoring the subtle sting of his condescension. “The marriage contract stipulates that a portion of the family trust is allocated directly toward my personal management. I want to request that the medical payments for St. Jude’s Hospital be paid directly from your accounts to the hospital administration, rather than routed through Evelyn.”

Michael’s dark eyebrows pulled together slightly. His gaze sharpened, sweeping over my face as if searching for a hidden angle or a high-society scam.

“Your mother handles the family medical trusts,” Michael noted, his tone laced with mild irritation. “Why are you asking me to bypass your own family’s accounting department?”

“Because Evelyn is inefficient,” I lied smoothly, keeping my voice cool and businesslike. “And because the hospital requires a guaranteed direct clearance by Friday for the secondary procedure. Since I am now legally your wife, having your finance team handle the direct transfers ensures no corporate delays or administrative miscommunications.”

Michael stared at me for several seconds in absolute silence. The quiet in the study grew thick enough to choke on. He didn't ask about the nature of the medical bills, nor did he ask who the patient was; to him, it was merely another nuisance involving the chaotic Sterling family dynamics he had bought into.

He reached for his desk phone, tapped a single speed-dial button, and brought the receiver to his ear.

“Linus,” Michael commanded smoothly when his chief assistant answered. “Contact the administrative director at St. Jude’s Memorial. Have our corporate legal team flag all incoming invoices under the Sterling personal medical trust and route them directly through our private treasury for immediate settlement. Do not send them through Evelyn’s office.”

He listened for a moment, gave a curt “Do it today,” and hung up the phone.

He turned his focus back to me, his gray eyes narrowing into two icy points.

“It’s done,” Michael said, his voice dropping into a low, firm thread. “But let me make one thing entirely clear. I handle your family's administrative interference because I demand order in my estate, not because I am open to taking personal requests. Do not mistake my assistance for a shift in our arrangement.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Sterling,” I replied quietly. “Thank you.”

I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, closing the heavy mahogany doors behind me. My hands were shaking, but as I walked down the marble hallway, a massive wave of relief washed over me. Grandmother’s medical care was now anchored to Michael’s treasury, safely out of Evelyn’s malicious reach.

That evening, after a quiet dinner eaten alone in my guest suite, I sat on the edge of the bed reviewing the schedule for Thursday's corporate gala.

At nine o'clock, my phone chimed on the nightstand.

I picked it up, expecting a message from the hospital staff. Instead, an international video call request flashed across the screen.

Gemma.

I slid the icon to accept. Gemma’s face filled the display, framed by the sleek, modern glass of a high-end rooftop restaurant in Paris. She was wearing a sparkling silver cocktail dress, her hair styled in effortless waves, holding a thin cigarette in one hand and a champagne flute in the other.

“Well, well,” Gemma’s voice dripped through the speaker, sweet, sharp, and laced with quiet malice. “I heard from Mother today. She said you went over her head and had Michael handle the hospital transfers directly.”

I kept my face completely expressionless. “The hospital needed the clearance by Friday. I did what was necessary.”

Gemma took a long drag from her cigarette, blowing a cloud of faint grey smoke away from the camera as she let out a light, musical laugh that held zero warmth.

“Look at you, playing the decisive little wife,” Gemma mocked softly, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Has Michael already grown tired of your dull routine? Mother told me his mistress walked right into the house on your wedding night. How embarrassing for you, Ivy.”

I gripped the edge of the mattress, refusing to let her see how deeply her words cut. “I’m doing the job I signed up for, Gemma.”

Gemma’s smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp look of cold warning that mirrored Evelyn’s worst expressions. She leaned closer to her phone camera, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.

“Just remember your place, sister,” Gemma hissed quietly. “You might have gotten away with bypassing Mother today, but Grandmother’s treatment still depends entirely on your absolute obedience to this play. If you mess up at the gala on Thursday, if you make a single mistake in front of Michael’s board, I will fly back and make sure you regret it.”

She didn't wait for a response. The line disconnected instantly, leaving me staring at a dark screen.

I set the phone face down on the nightstand, letting out a long, shaky breath as the silence of the mansion settled around me once more.

I pulled the duvet over my legs and reached up to switch off the bedside lamp, ready to surrender to the darkness.

Just as the light went out, the phone vibrated twice against the hard wood of the nightstand.

I turned back, flipping the screen over.

A text message had arrived from an unfamiliar, unlisted local number.

I opened the notification. The stark white text on the black screen read:

“You should be careful about asking Michael for money. His girlfriend does not like sharing what she considers hers.”