EDORA's POV
"Watch where you're going"
I snapped, the accumulated terror and humiliation boiling over into a fierce, desperate rage. "Watch where I'm going? You were standing in the middle of a doorway! My father is dying and I need fucking $20,000, I don't have time for your entitled arrogance!"
He didn't flinch. His cold eyes narrowed slightly, not in surprise, but in a detached, analytical interest that was somehow worse than contempt. "And you assume your problems grant you a license to assault people? Pick up your trash."
The sheer, staggering indifference of this man was the final breaking point. I pick up my belongings as I storm away from the commotion.
WILSON's POV
The impact had been nothing, a slight, annoying jostle, but the sheer force of the girl's momentum was staggering. It was like being hit by a small, panicked projectile. I looked down at the disheveled mess, a girl with tear tracks cutting paths through grime, cheap leather jacket ripped at the sleeve, and the contents of a pathetic bag scattered across the polished marble. My own suit, a custom charcoal wool, was thankfully untouched.
"Watch where you're going," I commanded, the words coming out flat and low. Inconvenience was a luxury I couldn't afford.
The girl didn't flinch. Instead, she pushed off the wall and straightened, her small frame rigid with a sudden, fierce energy that snapped my focus off the appointment I was rushing to.
"Watch where I'm going? You were standing in the middle of a doorway! My father is dying an I need fucking $20,000, i don't have time for your entitled arrogance!" she retorted, the accumulated terror and humiliation boiling over into a fierce, desperate rage that was entirely out of place in the sterile hospital lobby.
My lip curled automatically. I didn't tolerate disrespect, and I certainly didn't tolerate hysterics.
I let my cold eyes run over her, the cheap materials, the obvious financial distress.
"And you assume your problems grant you a license to assault people? Pick up your trash."
The sheer, staggering indifference of this man was the final breaking point.
I watched her face cycle through a dozen emotions. grief, shame, and finally, a white-hot contempt that briefly sparked something in my own cold core. Most people, most women, cowered when met with that level of dismissal. They stammered apologies or shrank away. But this girl, met my gaze with a defiant fire. It was raw, reckless, and entirely unexpected.
I was already turning away before she could reply, dismissing her as a statistical anomaly of poverty and bad luck. I had zero time for emotional liabilities.
I continued toward the private elevators. I hated hospitals. I hated the smell of bleach and the air of chaotic vulnerability. It was messy, unpredictable, and entirely antithetical to the life I had forged.
I, Wilson Gates, was the infamous CEO of Gates & co, a multi-billion-dollar company. I ran a world defined by control, precision, and profit margins.
My life was a fortress built on the ruins of my past. I despised emotion, because in my family, emotions were considered weakness. They were liabilities that cost you money, power, and respect. I learned that lesson brutally when a previous emotional investment, a relationship I'd foolishly confused with trust nearly cost me everything seven years ago. I walked away from that lesson colder and utterly dedicated to avoiding vulnerability at all costs.
My mission today wasn't about contracts or deals; it was a distraction I tolerated only for family obligation. I was here for my younger sister, Amelia Gates. She had been admitted to St. Jude's for severe, stress-related cramps, a minor medical issue, but still, a chaotic disruption.
I pressed the elevator button. Amelia. She was the only remaining link to the toxic legacy of the Gates name. While our upbringing had been emotionally barren, our shared experience of surviving our ruthlessly ambitious, emotionally stunted parents had forged a bond of shared trauma. She was my only concession to softness, and I would protect her, even if it meant navigating this irritating hospital environment.
I checked my watch again. I was already ten minutes behind schedule for my update. Time was not just money; it was war.
My true focus was the escalating corporate battle raging back at the headquarters. I was desperately battling a hostile corporate takeover. A conservative board of directors, steeped in tradition and old money, was threatening to block my new, highly aggressive global expansion plan. Their primary argument? My "reckless, solitary lifestyle." They claimed I was too unstable and too isolated to lead the company into its next phase.
My opposition, led by an old-money vulture named Harrison, kept repeating the mantra: "Wilson Gates needs stability. He needs family values. He needs a wife."
The idea sickened me. A wife. I would rather sell the company than tether myself to a pointless emotional anchor. But I was running out of options to secure the final, massive deal, a deal that would cement my power for the next decade. To win, I needed to portray myself as a family man, a stable, married man, and I needed to do it within the next three weeks.
The thought of finding a suitable, controllable wife in that timeframe, one who understood NDAs and could disappear when the contract ended, was an impossible logistical nightmare.
The elevator chimed, pulling me out of my intense internal review.
I strode down the hallway to Amelia's room, the carpet muffling my expensive footsteps. I didn't knock; I simply entered.
Amelia lay against the crisp white pillows, looking pale and fragile, a sight that always triggered a small, unwelcome anxiety in my chest.
"Wilson! You look like you're about to fire the doctor," she joked weakly.
I frowned, pulling a chair over. "Only if he wastes my time. How are you, Amelia?"
"I'm fine. Just stress. You know, from constantly having to hear about your impending corporate doom." She paused, her brown eyes studying me with a familiar, unnerving intensity.
"You look terrible, Wilson. You need to relax. Or maybe, you know, find someone who can talk you down from the Chairman Ledge."
"Don't be ridiculous," I dismissed, the words automatic. "I handle things. Did you talk to the nutritionist about your diet plan?"
Amelia sighed, a dramatic flutter of her lashes. "Yes, Wilson. I talked to the nutritionist. I also saw that article about Harrison claiming you're too unstable to lead. You know what he wants, right? A ring on your finger. A nice, traditional, non-threatening wife. It's sad, but it's the game."
I clenched my jaw. "I am aware of the parameters of the current market warfare."
"It's not warfare, Wilson, it's PR. Look, I'm being serious." She leaned forward slightly. "We need a sister-in-law. Someone warm. Someone who looks like they could actually tolerate your company. And fast. Think of it as a merger, not a marriage."
I stood abruptly. "I've heard enough. I will have my security detail escort you home tomorrow morning. Call me if you need anything else."
I left before she could tease me further. Her words, though annoyingly emotional, resonated with the stark, brutal logic of the boardroom. A wife was a necessity. A weapon.
I made my way back toward the main lobby, my mind churning with the legal risks and the financial cost of a temporary marriage contract. The requirements were extensive: iron-clad NDAs, an aggressive termination clause, and someone with absolutely zero pre-existing emotional ties who wouldn't try to challenge the agreement later.
I passed the exact spot where I had collided with the girl barely forty minutes earlier. The space was clean now; no scattered debris. But the memory was sharp. The anger, the sheer, blazing desperation in her eyes.
A wall of concrete between me and my father's life... $20,000.
The details, which I had instantly dismissed as irrelevant noise, suddenly snapped into razor-sharp focus. I recalled the receptionist's casual mention of the "emergency operation," the Financial Administrator's cold demeanor, and the girl's frantic, hopeless tears.
Desperation. It wasn't weakness; it was leverage.
I stopped dead in my tracks. The solution, the single, perfect, flawless loophole to my corporate problem, had literally run headfirst into me.
This girl (I'd briefly seen the nurse's chart when I walked past the security desk), was financially broken, terrified, and operating under a fixed, non-negotiable deadline of forty-eight hours. She had no powerful friends (confirmed by her cheap attire and panic), and her entire motivation was selfless (saving her father). She wouldn't be doing this for money or status; she'd be doing it for survival. A perfect, controllable asset.
She needs $20,000 to save her father. I need a wife to save my company.
This wasn't a romance; it was a business transaction, a mutually beneficial bargain. I could provide the solution to her problem, a permanent one, not just a loan, and she would provide the temporary image of stability I needed. I could structure the contract with clauses that would make her life seamless, but entirely contained, no outside men, mandatory appearances, and total silence.
I moved to the nearest staff lounge and found an executive assistant looking bored. I pulled out my Gates Industries black card and gave her a precise, cold command.
"Find the girl who was just involved in a disturbance in the main lobby. Find out her current location. When you have it, contact her. Tell her to meet me tomorrow at the 'Vantage Point' restaurant across the street. And give her this."
I handed the assistant one of my business cards, thick, black metal embossed with the silver logo of Gates Industries, CEO.
The girl wanted to survive. I wanted to win. We were about to enter a contract where both goals were achievable.
I watched the assistant scramble away, her eyes wide with shock. I finally allowed myself a small, satisfied, clinical smile. The massive deal would soon be secured. I had found my weapon.
I headed for the exit.