Too Late For Regret: My Hidden Billionaire

Five minutes after hanging up the phone, Daryl walked out of the lounge and pushed open the door to the attending physician's office. The doctor was staring at Marlene's massive unpaid billing screen. When he saw Daryl, his face hardened into a mask of corporate policy. "Mr. Bush, since Ms. Doyle withdrew her financial guarantee, we can only provide basic life support," the doctor said flatly. "Process the transfer paperwork immediately," Daryl said, his face devoid of emotion. "I am taking her out of here." The doctor frowned, shaking his head. "Your mother cannot survive the turbulence of a standard ambulance ride right now. Moving her is murder." Before Daryl could reply, the heavy landline on the doctor's desk began to ring frantically. The caller ID flashed the hospital president's secure internal line. The doctor picked up the receiver. Within seconds, the blood drained from his face. He nodded aggressively, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He hung up the phone and looked at Daryl. The annoyance in his eyes was entirely replaced by stark terror and awe. "The... the transfer is green-lit," the doctor stammered, his hands shaking. "The receiving facility is the Asclepius Private Sanatorium." Daryl did not acknowledge the doctor's shock. He turned and walked straight toward the ICU. Downstairs, Blaire and Estevan were walking through the main hospital lobby, discussing the catering for their upcoming merger banquet. Suddenly, a deafening roar tore through the night sky. The glass doors of the lobby violently vibrated as the sound of heavy helicopter rotors beat against the air. Two massive, pitch-black medical transport helicopters, stripped of all identifying logos, descended directly onto the hospital's emergency plaza. At the exact same moment, eight black, armored Cadillac SUVs screeched to a halt, completely blocking every exit of the hospital. Dozens of men in black tactical suits, wearing invisible earpieces, poured out of the vehicles. They moved with terrifying precision, instantly forming a hard perimeter. The patients and staff in the lobby froze in shock, assuming a president or a cartel boss was under attack. Blaire and Estevan were trapped inside the lobby, blocked by the wall of tactical guards. Estevan narrowed his eyes, trying to spot a family crest or corporate logo on the guards' uniforms, but there was nothing. The double doors of the ICU wing swung open. Daryl walked out, pushing a heavily modified mobile life-support bed. Two world-class trauma surgeons walked closely behind him, whispering vital stats with utmost respect. The moment Daryl stepped into the main lobby, every single man in a black tactical suit snapped to attention and bowed their heads in perfect unison. Blaire saw it. Her pupils contracted to the size of pinpricks. Her brain completely short-circuited. She could not process the image. These men looked deadlier than Secret Service agents, and they were bowing to her useless, unemployed ex-husband. "It's a stunt," Estevan whispered fiercely into Blaire's ear, trying to save his own ego. "The Doyle family enemies are putting on a show to cause chaos." Daryl pushed the bed through the center of the lobby. His cold eyes swept over Blaire and Estevan, who were held back behind the security line. He didn't say a single word. He just looked at them like they were ants on the pavement. That silent, absolute disregard cut deeper into Blaire's pride than any insult. The bed was smoothly loaded into the first black helicopter. Daryl turned to board, but a deafening, aggressive roar of a supercar engine ripped through the plaza. A limited-edition Lamborghini Veneno drifted around the armored SUVs with reckless, arrogant speed, slamming on the brakes right next to the helicopter. The scissor door shot upward. A pair of long legs, ending in diamond-encrusted heels, stepped out onto the concrete.