Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 469 Madeline's POV The private hospital where my father was admitted was imposing and clinically modern. The white walls and the sharp scent of disinfectant instantly pulled me back to the days I'd spent in the psychiatric clinic, and my stomach tightened with memories I would have preferred to keep buried. Marcus and I walked toward the reception desk, our footsteps echoing across the polished marble floor. I held his hand tightly, our fingers intertwined-the only anchor I could find in the middle of the emotional storm raging inside me. I didn't really know what to expect.

Throughout the flight, I'd rehearsed different scenarios in my head- finding my father awake, seeing him asleep, maybe even having a difficult but necessary conversation about our complicated relationship. What I hadn't prepared for was the growing fear that settled deeper with every step I took toward his room. The receptionist, a woman, greeted us with the polished professionalism typical of expensive hospitals. "Good afternoon. How can I help you?" "We're here to visit Alfred Sullivan," I replied, doing my best to keep my voice steady despite the rising anxiety.

She typed something into the computer, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. After a few seconds, she looked up at me. "What is your relationship to the patient?" "Daughter," I answered, the word heavy with the weight of a relationship we had never truly managed to fix. She nodded and made a few notes before looking up again. "Please wait in the small waiting room to the right. I'll call the attending physician to speak with you. Just a moment. A chill ran down my spine. Why did we need to speak to the doctor before seeing my father? Why couldn't we just go straight to his room?

in my mind as we followed her directions to the small room. The waiting room was cozy but formal, with beige leather sofas and a coffee table stacked with neatly arranged magazines. Marcus sat beside me, still holding my hand, and I could tell he was tense too-probably picking up on the same subtle warning signs in the receptionist's behavior that I had. A few minutes later, a gray-haired man in a white lab coat entered the room.

as preparation for a 1/3 serious conversation. "I'd like to explain to you what happened to Mr. Sullivan," he began, his voice taking on that slow, technical, yet compassionate tone doctors use when they need to be careful. I felt my breathing grow shallow as he began explaining the heart attack-how my father had held on for a few days, the complications caused by his medical history, the procedures

Sullivan didn't make it. He passed away early this morning." The words seemed to echo in the small room before they finally registered. My father

searing pain in my head, like it was splitting in two. My father was dead. The man who forced me to be the perfect daughter. Who controlled every aspect of my life with an