Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 469

Chapter 469

Madeline’s POV

The private hospital where my father was admitted was imposing and clinically modern. The white walls and the sharp scent of disinfectant instantly pulled me back to the days I’d spent in the psychiatric clinic, and my stomach tightened with memories I would have preferred to keep buried.

Marcus and I walked toward the reception desk, our footsteps echoing across the polished marble floor. I held his hand tightly, our fingers intertwined-the only anchor I could find in the middle of the emotional storm raging inside me.

I didn’t really know what to expect. Throughout the flight, I’d rehearsed different scenarios in my head- finding my father awake, seeing him asleep, maybe even having a difficult but necessary conversation about our complicated relationship. What I hadn’t prepared for was the growing fear that settled deeper with every step I took toward his room.

The receptionist, a woman, greeted us with the polished professionalism typical of expensive hospitals.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“We’re here to visit Alfred Sullivan,” I replied, doing my best to keep my voice steady despite the rising anxiety.

She typed something into the computer, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. After a few seconds, she looked up at me.

“What is your relationship to the patient?”

“Daughter,” I answered, the word heavy with the weight of a relationship we had never truly managed to fix.

She nodded and made a few notes before looking up again.

“Please wait in the small waiting room to the right. I’ll call the attending physician to speak with you. Just a

moment.

A chill ran down my spine. Why did we need to speak to the doctor before seeing my father? Why couldn’t we just go straight to his room? The questions multiplied in my mind as we followed her directions to the small

room.

The waiting room was cozy but formal, with beige leather sofas and a coffee table stacked with neatly arranged magazines. Marcus sat beside me, still holding my hand, and I could tell he was tense too-probably picking up on the same subtle warning signs in the receptionist’s behavior that I had.

A few minutes later, a gray-haired man in a white lab coat entered the room. He wore that carefully neutral expression doctors develop when they have difficult news to deliver.

“Ms. Sullivan?” he asked, looking at me.

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Henry Moriarty, the cardiologist in charge of your father’s case.’

He sat down in the armchair across from us, hands folded in his lap-a posture I recognized as preparation for a

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serious conversation.

“I’d like to explain to you what happened to Mr. Sullivan,” he began, his voice taking on that slow, technical, yet compassionate tone doctors use when they need to be careful.

I felt my breathing grow shallow as he began explaining the heart attack-how my father had held on for a few days, the complications caused by his medical history, the procedures they had attempted. His words blended into a fog of medical terms and careful explanations that my anxious mind struggled to process.

“We did everything within our power,” he continued. “But unfortunately, Mr. Sullivan didn’t make it. He passed away early this morning.”

The words seemed to echo in the small room before they finally registered.

My father was dead.

My body seemed to collapse in on itself, going into complete shock as tears immediately filled my eyes. The world around me slowed and blurred, like I was seeing everything through warped glass.

I vaguely registered Marcus trying to speak to me, his voice sounding distant, like it was coming from far away. All I could hear was a high-pitched ringing in my ears. All I could feel was the searing pain in my head, like it was splitting in two.

My father was dead.

The man who forced me to be the perfect daughter. Who controlled every aspect of my life with an iron grip. Who had committed me to a psychiatric clinic when he could no longer manipulate me.

But also the man who held my hand when I was scared to ride the Ferris wheel at the park when I was six. The man who patiently taught me math on Sunday afternoons, sitting at the kitchen table with pencil and paper. The man who used to take me fishing at the lake near our country house, teaching me to stay quiet and patient while we waited for the fish to bite.

He was gone and I would never get the chance to reclaim that. Never get the chance to recover the good childhood memories that had been buried under years of conflict and control. We would never understand each other again. Never forgive each other for the mistakes we’d made.

If I had accepted Vivian’s offer and flown with her on that jet, I would’ve arrived in time. I would’ve had the chance to say goodbye. To say the words that needed to be said. To try to fix-even if only a small part-of what had been broken between us.

I would never forgive myself for that choice.

Marcus kept calling my name, his voice thick with growing concern, but I remained trapped inside my thoughts, drowning in grief that crashed over me in violent waves. Guilt tangled with pain, forming an emotional storm that left me completely frozen.

And then, suddenly, the pain in my head shifted into something far more alarming.

A sharp, sudden pain tore through my abdomen-nothing like anything I’d ever felt before. My eyes flew open as I looked at Marcus, panic instantly replacing grief.

“I don’t feel well,” I managed to say, my voice coming out hoarse and desperate.

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