Semua Bab The Billion Dollar Contract: Bab 11 - Bab 17

ELENA’S POVMercy Hospital smelled like bleach and death. I burst through the double doors, my heels clicking too loudly against the cracked linoleum floor. It was too bright, too cold—everything was white and sterile and wrong.A nurse glanced up at the entrance from her station.“I’m here for Thomas Vance,” I said. My voice cracked on his name.She checked her computer screen, and her face went carefully neutral. Oh God. That look meant bad news.“He’s in surgery. Critical condition.” She pointed down a hallway. “Waiting room is down there. Third door on the left. Someone will update you when we know more.”Critical condition. My head was echoing with the words. I nodded numbly and walked down the hallway on legs that felt like they weren’t mine.The waiting room was small. Fluorescent lights buzzed above like trapped insects. Vinyl chairs lined the walls, and the TV in the corner was on but muted, flashing silent news.I was the only one there. I slid into a chair, the vinyl sque

ELENA’S POVI woke up on the couch, squinting against the aggressive morning sun pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light was too bright, too cheerful for the heaviness in my chest. My neck was stiff from the awkward angle, but there was a blanket draped over me—a cashmere throw, soft and impossibly expensive. I hadn't pulled it over myself last night.Adrian.I sat up slowly, the silence of the penthouse pressing against my ears. There was a note on the coffee table, written in his sharp, purposeful handwriting: Had to chase down a lead. Won't be home tonight. I'll explain when I return. - A.I stared down at the paper, a flicker of irritation sparking in my chest. Stay home. It was an order disguised as information, as if I were a child who needed protecting rather than a partner in this mess. But I was too tired to hold onto the anger. I folded the note with a sigh, then showered and changed, washing away the residue of the hospital waiting room.By 10:30 AM, I wa

ELENA’S POVA week. It had been a week, and time didn't seem to have meaning anymore. Hospital. Penthouse. Work. Repeat.At the hospital, my father still slept in his coma. The doctors said the swelling in his brain had gone down, that he was stable and his vitals were good, but he didn't wake. Every morning I went and sat beside his bed, speaking to him even though he couldn't hear me. Just waiting.At the penthouse, I took care of the Luxe project and waited for Adrian to return. We had developed a routine—quiet, cautious, borderline domestic. Coffee together at the kitchen island, him on his tablet going over financials, me on my laptop sketching designs. There was silence between us, but it was different now. A comfortable silence that didn't suffocate me anymore.He would ask how my father was. I would ask about his day. Stupid questions. Simple answers. Normal. Dangerously normal.At night, I would end up in the living room, him with a glass of scotch, me with my tea. We talked