Bought A Gigolo, Got A Billionaire CEO

The sharp, chemical stench of bleach dragged Alexis back to consciousness. She opened her eyes slowly. The harsh overhead light stabbed at her retinas. A dull, throbbing agony pulsed in her forehead with every beat of her heart. She turned her head slightly. She was in a standard hospital room. The scratchy sheets smelled like industrial detergent. She reached up and felt a thick wad of gauze taped over her temple. Then, she saw him. Jarrett sat in a cheap vinyl armchair in the corner of the room. His long legs were crossed at the ankle. He was watching her, his dark eyes unreadable, his presence entirely too large for the sterile, depressing room. The memories of the night crashed down on her. Her father's death. The bankruptcy. Her mother's hands around her throat. Alexis gripped the thin blanket. A fierce, irrational surge of pride flared in her chest. She refused to let this man-a gigolo she had hired for a one-night stand-see her broken, destitute, and pathetic. She forced herself to sit up, ignoring the wave of nausea. She pointed a trembling finger at the door. "Get out," she rasped, her throat bruised and raw. "I don't want you here." Jarrett didn't flinch. He didn't look angry. He simply uncrossed his legs and stood up. He smoothed the front of his ruined, blood-stained suit jacket with slow, deliberate movements. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at her. "You still owe me a million dollars. Don't think you can die to get out of it." He stepped out, letting the door click shut behind him. Less than a minute later, the door swung open again. Carlos walked in. He wore a fresh, custom-tailored navy suit, looking like he had just stepped off a yacht. A smug, victorious smile stretched across his face. He looked at the bandage on Alexis's head and chuckled. Alexis grabbed the plastic water pitcher from her bedside table and hurled it at his face. Carlos easily dodged it. The pitcher hit the wall, shattering and spilling ice water everywhere. Carlos stepped over the puddle, walking right up to the edge of her bed. He looked down at her like she was an insect. "I did it," Carlos said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I drained the accounts. Dollie and I took everything. Consider it payment for you whoring around and humiliating me." Alexis's chest he heave. "Where is my mother?" she demanded, her voice shaking with rage. Carlos reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper bearing the hospital's official seal. He flicked it open and held it in front of her face. "Since she assaulted you in the ER, the doctors deemed her a danger to herself and others," Carlos smiled, his teeth showing. "As your concerned former family member, I signed the authorization. She's been heavily sedated and transferred to a closed psychiatric facility upstate." Alexis felt the floor drop out from under her. She lunged forward, grabbing the IV line taped to the back of her hand, and ripped it out. Blood instantly spurted from the vein, dripping onto the white sheets. She tried to swing her legs over the bed to attack him. Carlos shoved her hard in the chest, forcing her back against the pillows. "Stay out of New York," Carlos whispered, leaning in close. "If you try to fight me, I will make sure your mother rots in a padded cell for the rest of her miserable life." He straightened his tie, laughed out loud, and walked out of the room. Alexis lay there, panting, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth again. She bit her lower lip until it split. She couldn't cry. Crying was for the weak. Outside the room, Jarrett had just returned with a fresh bottle of water from the cafeteria when he heard Carlos's smug voice echoing from inside. He paused by the door, leaning against the cold corridor wall. His grip tightened on the plastic bottle as he stood perfectly still, his expression turning glacial. He had heard every single word. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Bruno: Find out which psych ward Harriette Mills was taken to. I want the director's name in five minutes. Inside the room, Alexis threw off the covers. Her bare feet hit the cold linoleum. She walked to the small closet and pulled out her dirty, blood-stained trench coat. She shoved her arms into the sleeves, pulling it tight over her thin hospital gown. She pressed a wad of tissues against her bleeding hand, leaned heavily against the wall, and began the agonizing walk out of the hospital. She had to get her mother back.