Bound To The Billionaire's Cruel Contract

Carissa's fingers dug into the cold metal handrail of the hospital corridor. Her knuckles had gone white. Her heart pounded against her ribs, matching the steady tick of the wall clock. Every second that passed without Dr. Adler walking through those glass doors pressed down on her chest, made it hard to pull air in. The elevator at the end of the sterile hallway chimed. Guilford Gates stepped out. Two massive bodyguards flanked him, his long strides eating up the distance fast. The air in the corridor dropped ten degrees. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that screamed money and power, but it was the flat, frozen look in his dark eyes that hollowed out Carissa's stomach. His gaze swept over her pale face. He didn't slow down. A low scoff left his lips, thick with contempt, hitting her like a slap. Carissa bit the inside of her cheek. Blood, metallic and warm, grounded her. She wanted to scream at him, to fight back against the gold-digger label he'd branded her with four years ago. But her son was lying in the ICU behind her. She swallowed the humiliation. It burned all the way down. The glass doors to the lab pushed open. Dr. Adler walked out, a thin manila folder in his hands. His shoulders slumped. Deep lines cut across his forehead. Carissa lunged forward. Her legs, numb from hours of standing on that hard floor, buckled. She stumbled toward the polished tile. Guilford's hand shot out. He gripped her upper arm through her cheap trench coat, his fingers digging in just enough to steady her. The second she found her balance, he let go. He wiped his hand against his slacks like he'd touched something filthy. Dr. Adler let out a heavy breath. He wouldn't meet Carissa's eyes. "The bone marrow match failed." The words sucked all the air out of the hallway. A roar filled Carissa's ears. Hot tears spilled over her lashes, burning her cold cheeks. She grabbed the lapels of the doctor's white coat, her fingers shaking hard. "Test it again. Please. You have to test it again." Guilford's jaw ticked. A muscle feathered under his skin. He reached out, grabbed Carissa by the back of her collar, and yanked her away from the doctor. "Give me the backup plan," he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. "Now." Dr. Adler wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "There is one last option. Highly risky. A savior sibling. Natural conception, to create a perfect donor match." Carissa's eyes went wide. She stumbled backward, her spine hitting the cold wall with a hard thud. Guilford's eyes narrowed to slits. He stepped toward the doctor. "Why not IVF? I'm not wasting time." "Her hormone levels are dangerously erratic." The doctor pulled up Carissa's charts on his tablet, turning the screen toward Guilford. "Success rate for in-vitro right now is under ten percent. It would waste crucial time. Natural conception is the only viable path." Guilford turned his head slowly. His gaze dragged over Carissa, assessing her like defective merchandise on an auction block. That raw, calculating look churned her stomach. She crossed her arms over her chest, nails digging into her own sleeves. "No. Absolutely not. I won't agree to this." Guilford let out a dark laugh, no humor in it. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a blank check, and threw it hard against her chest. The crisp paper fluttered to the floor. "Drop the act, Carissa. Name your price. Ten million? Twenty? You already sold your firstborn. Breeding another one should just be good business for you." Carissa's blood went hot. She raised her hand, aiming a slap at his face. Guilford caught her wrist mid-air. His grip crushed down like a steel vise. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his breath smelling of mint and black coffee. "If you don't cooperate," he whispered, the threat vibrating against her skin, "you will never see Isadore again. For the rest of your life." The struggle drained out of her. Her arms went limp. The fight in her eyes shattered, replaced by something hollow and desperate. Guilford dropped her wrist. He turned and walked toward the ICU viewing window, gesturing with his chin. "Look at him." Carissa dragged her heavy feet to the glass. Isadore lay there, a tiny frame swallowed by tubes and wires. More tears blurred her vision, hot and fast. As if sensing her, Isadore's small hand twitched in his sleep. The movement tugged at a wire, sending a sharp, high-pitched beep from the heart monitor. That single beep hit Carissa square in the chest. It broke everything she had left. Guilford adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, glancing at his Patek Philippe. "You have twenty-four hours to decide." He didn't look at her again. He turned and walked away, the sharp clack of his leather shoes echoing down the corridor until it faded into nothing. Carissa's knees gave out. She slid down the glass, sitting on the cold floor. She pressed her palm against the window, right where Isadore's pale cheek rested on the other side, and sobbed until her throat went raw. A nurse approached, holding out a paper cup of warm water. Carissa looked up. Her eyes were so dead, so empty, the nurse stepped back. She sat there for thirty minutes. When the cold had seeped into her bones, she used the wall to push herself up. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. She walked over to the blank check on the floor, picked it up, and ripped it into tiny pieces. She dropped the shreds into the trash can. Then, with a hardened stare, she turned and walked toward the elevator.