A Secretive Deal with My Billionaire Boss

Madison

The shrill ring pierced through our conversation like divine intervention. I almost wept with relief.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "That's your phone."

Oh. Right. My phone. The one currently screaming from my pocket like a banshee with its vocal cords caught in a blender.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Knight." I fumbled my phone, almost dropping it before answering. "Hello?"

"Is this Madison Harper?" A clinical voice cut through the line.

"Speaking."

"This is Metro General Hospital. Your mother, Sarah Harper, was brought to our emergency room-"

The world tilted sideways. The pristine office, Alexander's expensive desk, the Manhattan skyline - everything blurred into meaningless shapes.

"What happened? Is she-"

"She's stable now, but we need you to come in immediately."

I shot up from my chair. "I'll be right there."

"Madison?" Alexander's voice snapped me back to reality. "What's wrong?"

"My mom—she's in the ER. I have to go —" I gestured vaguely at the door.

"John will take you."

"What? No, I can't-"

"John," Alexander spoke into his phone. "Meet Miss Harper downstairs. Take her to Metro General."

"Mr. Knight, really, I can-"

"Go." His tone left no room for argument.

The elevator ride felt endless. John, Alexander's driver, waited by the sleek black car. He opened the door without a word, his usual stern expression softened with concern.

Traffic crawled like molasses. I bounced my knee, checking my phone every thirty seconds. John caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

"We'll be there in five minutes, Miss Harper."

The hospital smell hit me first - that distinct mix of antiseptic and despair. I rushed to the reception desk. "Sarah Harper? She was brought in-"

"Room 304." The nurse pointed toward the elevator. "Dr. Matthews is waiting to speak with you."

Mom looked small in the hospital bed, tubes snaking from her arms. But she was alive. Breathing. The monitor's steady beeping became my favorite sound in the world.

"Ms. Harper?" A doctor materialized beside me, clipboard in hand. "Your mother experienced severe complications from her condition. We managed to stabilize her, but she'll need specialized medication moving forward."

I nodded, relief making my knees weak. "Whatever she needs."

"The treatment plan..." He hesitated. "It's rather extensive. The medications alone-"

My stomach dropped as he quoted the figure. The number had more zeros than my bank account had seen in its entire existence.

"I understand." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'll handle it."

The doctor nodded and left me alone with Mom and my spinning thoughts. The amount he'd quoted could buy a luxury car or a designer handbag if you shopped where Alexander did.

The hospital bill loomed over me like a cartoon anvil, ready to drop. My savings wouldn't cover half of it. My credit cards were already maxed from the last hospital stay.

I slumped into the plastic chair next to Mom's bed, designed to make visitors uncomfortable. Maybe they thought discomfort would make people leave faster. Joke's on them - I wasn't going anywhere.

"Of course, we can set up a payment plan," the billing specialist chirped, way too perky for someone dropping financial nuclear bombs. Her badge read 'Janet.'

"Great." I forced a smile. "I'll definitely handle that." Handle it how? By robbing a bank? Starting an OnlyFans? Selling my organs on the black market?

Janet slid the paperwork across the table, her French manicure tapping against the forms. "Just sign here, here, and... here." She pointed to various dotted lines like she gave directions to Disney World instead of financial ruin.

I scribbled my signature, trying not to think about how each stroke of the pen was basically signing away my firstborn child—and possibly my second and third—just to cover the deductible.

"Perfect!" Janet beamed. "The financial office will contact you to set up the payment schedule."

"Can't wait," I muttered, watching her bounce away in her sensible shoes. I bet she had great health insurance.

Mom stirred in her sleep, and I reached for her hand. The monitor beeped steadily, each sound representing another dollar I didn't have. At this rate, I'd need to win the lottery. Too bad I couldn't afford lottery tickets anymore.

When I finally got home, my apartment felt empty and cold. I'd stayed at the hospital until visiting hours ended, watching Mom sleep and trying not to hyperventilate over the mounting bills.

My phone buzzed. Hazel's face popped up on the screen, caught mid-laugh at some party we'd attended months ago.

I swiped to answer, collapsing onto my couch. "Hey."

"Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all evening!" Hazel's voice crackled through the speaker.

"Hospital. Mom had another episode."

"Oh god, Mads. Is she okay?"

"Stable now. But..." I pressed my palm against my forehead. "The bills, Haze. They're astronomical. Like, 'sell-both-kidneys-and-maybe-throw-in-a-lung' astronomical."

"How much?"

I quoted the number.

"That's..."

"Yeah." I stared at the ceiling. "I'm thinking of taking out loans, maybe picking up extra hours at work." My voice trailed off. Even with overtime, the math didn't add up. I'd need to work approximately three hundred hours a day, and last I checked, days still only had twenty-four.

Hazel's voice softened. "I can help. I've got some savings-"

"No." I sat up straight. "Absolutely not. You're saving for your photography studio."

"Which can wait. Your mom can't."

"I swear if you try to give me money, I'll replace all your camera lenses with plastic toys."

"Fine." She huffed. "Then let me help another way. I know some people looking for part-time help."

"What kind of help?"

"My friend Emily needs a virtual assistant. Just a few hours in the evenings, all remote. And there's this marketing agency that needs someone for small projects. Also remote."

"You know Knight Industries has a no moonlighting policy."

"Half the accounting department tutors kids on the side. Besides, it's not like you'd be working for competitors. Emily runs a boutique wedding planning business, and the agency handles local restaurants."

I chewed my lip. "How much are we talking?"

"The VA position is thirty an hour, and the agency projects vary but usually pay well."

My mental calculator whirred. That could actually dent the hospital bills.

"But," Hazel's voice turned serious, "if you get caught..."

"I know, I know. Immediate termination, possibly getting blacklisted, eternal shame, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria."

"I'm just saying be careful."

"When am I not careful?"

"Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?"

"I hate you."

"Love you too. I'll send you Emily's contact info."

The next day, I juggled my regular work while sneaking peeks at training materials. Multi-tasking reached new heights as I coordinated Alexander's meetings while learning to manage wedding vendor spreadsheets.

"Miss Harper?" Alexander's voice crackled through the intercom.

I shut my laptop, even though he couldn't see the wedding planning guides on my screen. "Yes, Mr. Knight?"

"The Bennett contract?"

Right. The contract I was supposed to review them an hour ago before I fell down a rabbit hole of flower arrangement logistics.

"On your desk in five minutes."

I speed-read through forty pages of legal jargon, my brain switching between corporate speak and wedding terminology. I was blaming sleep deprivation if I accidentally wrote "until death do us part" in a merger agreement.

By lunch, my brain felt like scrambled eggs. I inhaled my sandwich while watching tutorial videos on mute, praying no one would question why I was so interested in wedding planning software.

Back at my desk, I rubbed my eyes, willing the spreadsheet to make sense. The numbers danced across the screen like they were auditioning for Broadway, failing miserably.

"Miss Harper."

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Alexander's voice through the intercom shouldn't have startled me - it's not like he installed surround sound just to give me a heart attack - but my nerves were already shot from juggling two jobs and approximately seventeen different kinds of guilt.

"Yes, Mr. Knight?" My voice was higher than a helium balloon at a kid's party.

"Come to my office."