Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 407

Chapter 407

Madeline’s POV

I spat the pills into the toilet and flushed quickly, watching them disappear in the swirl of water. It was the third tin today I’d managed to do it without getting caught. I was getting smarter. Learning to hide the pills under my tongue, pretend to swallow, then get rid of them when no one was looking.

Enduring Vivian’s and Dominic’s constant visits had been exhausting. They pressured me nonstop, twisting every conversation, manipulating every word until I started questioning my own sanity. There were moments when I almost believed them. Maybe I really was losing it. Maybe the medication was helping. Maybe I should stop fighting and just accept the version of reality they kept forcing down my throat.

But then I remembered Marcus’s words. The promise we’d made to each other. He said he would fight for me, and I promised I would fight too. That’s when I started pretending to take the pills, hiding them in my mouth so I could spit them out later when I was alone.

I couldn’t avoid the injections, unfortunately. Those were administered directly by nurses who watched closely, making sure the medication took effect. Most of the time, the sedatives left me dizzy and unbearably sleepy, wrapping my mind in a fog that made it hard to think clearly or form coherent arguments.

But today, I was relatively lucid. I’d managed to avoid most of the oral medication, and it wasn’t time yet for the nightly injection. I could think clearly enough to truly reflect on my situation.

I was fighting for myself, just like I’d promised Marcus. And even though he and Olivia hadn’t come to see me in days, that only convinced me more that they were being blocked. They would never abandon me by choice. Dominic and his network were deliberately keeping anyone who might support me or question my so-called treatment far away.

Today marked five days since I’d been admitted. Marcus had promised he’d fix everything within a week. I was desperately hoping he could keep that promise, because I could feel myself starting to lose this fight. My mental resistance was wearing down, day by day, hour by hour.

It wasn’t just the medication breaking me.

It was Dominic’s constant threats, whispered during his visits. Vivian’s psychological torture, coming every day just to plant seeds of doubt about Marcus, about my marriage, about my own perception of reality. And my parents, pretending nothing extraordinary was happening, treating all of this like normal, necessary medical

care.

I was losing pieces of myself with every day I spent in that place.

A knock at the door interrupted my dark thoughts. Dr. Sanders, the physician overseeing my case, walked in carrying a clipboard, wearing that distant, professional expression all the staff seemed to have mastered perfectly.

“Miss Sullivan,” he said, glancing at his notes, “tomorrow we’ll be taking you to a hospital to perform a DNA test, as requested by your fiancé.”

My stomach dropped.

“I don’t have a fiancé,” I said automatically. “I’m married.”

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The doctor shook his head as if I were a stubborn child insisting on an obvious lie and scribbled something on his chart.

“The test is necessary to determine the child’s paternity and to assist in your treatment,” he said in a flat tone that suggested he’d repeated this explanation many times.

“The ultrasound showed early placental detachment,” I argued, panic rising in my throat. “It’s not safe to do the test. The doctor was very clear about that.”

“That’s nonsense,” he replied with a casualness that shocked me. “The risk is minimal. Statistically, only five to ten percent of cases result in fatal complications. It’s a routine procedure.”

Anger exploded inside me like a bomb.

“You’re telling me there’s a ten percent chance I could lose my child,” I said, my voice rising, “and you, as a doctor, approve Dominic’s insanity in ordering this test?”

“I’m telling you there’s a ninety percent chance everything will be fine,” he corrected coolly, the coldness in his tone sending a chill through me. “The procedure has already been scheduled and approved by the responsible family.”

“I’m responsible for myself!” I screamed, completely losing control. “And for this baby! You can’t force me into a procedure that puts my child at risk!”

The doctor sighed as if dealing with a particularly difficult patient.

“I’ll ask the nurse to come back with additional sedatives,” he said, writing something else on his chart. “You need to calm down. This level of agitation isn’t healthy for the baby.”

And then he left the room, abandoning me to my growing despair.

I barely had time to truly panic before a nurse came in carrying a syringe. I tried to protest. I tried to argue. But she simply said it was “doctor’s orders” and administered the sedative before I could effectively resist.

The medication hit me like a dark wave, dragging my consciousness under as if I were sinking into deep water. I fought it for a few minutes, struggling to keep my eyes open, to keep my thoughts straight, but eventually the darkness won.

I slept heavily. Dreamless, like I’d been switched off.

When I woke up, it was still dark outside. The room was silent, lit only by the faint glow spilling in from the hallway. My head felt heavy and foggy from the lingering effects of the sedatives, but little by little my awareness returned.

That was when I felt something warm and wet between my legs.

Instinctively, I reached down. When I brought my fingers up where I could see them in the dim light, the dark blood on my fingertips made my world collapse.

“I’M LOSING THE BABY!” I screamed with everything my lungs could manage. “SOMEONE HELP ME! I’M LOSING MY BABY!”

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