Wealth, Cheating, and Prison

My father was lying on an extra bed in the corridor of the emergency room, his face ashen pale.

The doctor handed me the surgical consent form, the tip of his pen tapping on the number.

"Nina, more than 90 % of your father's aorta is blocked. Imported covered stents has better biocompatibility than domestic ones, but at least two would be required. Emergency treatment, surgery, and postoperative care will cost over 60 thousand dollars. You needed to prepay 10 thousand dollars first."

10 thousand dollars, for me—a chief architectural designer with an annual salary of 600 thousand dollars—had been no more than the price of a luxury brand bag.

I took out my bank card and handed it to the nurse.

"Beep—insufficient balance."

The nurse frowned. "Ma'am, you’ve only got 60 dollars in this card."

I froze and dialed Cameron's number.

"Cameron." My voice trembled. "Dad suddenly had a heart attack and needs a stent urgently. The hospital is asking for a 10 thousand dollars deposit. Where’s the money in my bank account?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for two seconds before Cameron's cold voice came through. "The company has recently been bidding for the Summit Project. All funds have been locked in the guarantee account, and the family account has also been drawn to provide joint guarantees."

I panicked as soon as I heard that. "But this is money to save our dad's life! I only need 10 thousand dollars. As the CEO of Lister Group, don’t you even have 10 thousand dollars to spare?"

Cameron's tone immediately became impatient. "If I say I don't have it, then I don't have it. Doesn't your father have medical insurance? Why can't a cheap domestic stent be used? Do you really need to be superstitious about imported stents?"

"But Cameron, that's my dad. We’re not short of money!"

"Nina, stop making a fuss. I'm still with some clients at an art exhibition. I've gotta go."

The busy tone stabbed into my eardrums like an ice pick.

An art exhibition?

Before I could even process those three words, my phone vibrated.

It was a Twitter post forwarded by a colleague, freshly and gleefully posted by the company intern Wendy.

The first photo showed her in a custom haute couture gown, standing under the spotlight, with a huge abstract painting behind her.

The caption read: [Cameron is so nice. I just said I liked painting, and he gave me a million dollars to organize an art exhibition. I love him so much!]

The second photo captured them in a passionate embrace, and the third showed Cameron holding a glass of champagne and looking at Wendy, his gaze so doting it was almost suffocating.