Page 11 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

SADIE

T he hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in a constant hum that made my temples throb.

I'd been sitting in that plastic chair for three hours, watching nurses in pastel scrubs move through the halls with purpose I envied.

My mother lay sedated behind a curtain ten feet away, finally calm after the chaos of the last two nights.

The intake paperwork lay spread across my lap—forms asking about insurance we didn't have, emergency contacts I couldn't provide, medical history I only partially knew.

My pen hovered over the section requesting next of kin information.

Father: unknown. Siblings: none .

It had always been just Mom and me against the world, except now I wasn't sure who was fighting whom.

"Miss Quinn?"

A nurse with kind eyes and graying hair approached. Her badge read Patricia, RN .

"We need to discuss your mother's treatment options."

I straightened in the chair, trying to project competence I didn't feel.

"Of course. How is she?"

"Stable. The alcohol withdrawal symptoms should subside within the next twelve hours, but she'll need monitoring."

Patricia sat beside me, her voice dropping to a confidential tone.

"This isn't our first encounter with your mother, Sadie. May I call you Sadie?"

Heat crawled up my neck because of the shame of this entire thing. "Yes."

"We've admitted her twice in the past eight months. Both times for alcohol-related incidents."

She paused, studying my face. "Are you her primary caregiver?"

Primary caregiver…

As if my mother were an elderly relative instead of a fifty-three-year-old woman who should've been taking care of herself.

Taking care of me.

"I live with her," I replied.

"And you're how old?"

"Twenty-six."

Patricia nodded, making notes on her tablet.

"Sadie, I need you to understand that if your mother continues this pattern, Social Services will intervene. Adult Protective Services takes these situations seriously, especially when there's evidence of repeated self-harm through substance abuse."

My stomach dropped.

"What does that mean?"

"Court-ordered treatment. Supervised living arrangements. Potentially removing her from situations where she can access alcohol unsupervised."

Patricia's expression softened.

"I'm not trying to frighten you, but I want you to understand the gravity. Your mother needs professional help. It's not your fault, but when they get like this…"

Her voice trailed off, as if I were to blame.

Guilt knotted in my chest.

Professional help cost money we didn't have.

I nodded anyway, because what else could I do?

"We have a bed available in our seven-day detox program," she continued. "It's covered under emergency Medicaid, and it would give your mother the medical supervision she needs to safely withdraw from alcohol."

Seven days.

A week without Mom at home, without the constant worry of finding her passed out or worse.

Seven days to breathe, to sleep through the night without listening for crashes or cries for help.

"What happens after seven days?" I asked.

"That depends on your mother's commitment to recovery. We can refer her to outpatient programs, support groups, counseling services."

Patricia leaned forward.

"But Sadie, she has to want to get better. We can't force sobriety on someone who isn't ready to embrace it."

I knew this.

I'd known it for years, but hearing it spoken aloud made my chest tighten.

All my efforts to hide bottles, to monitor her intake, to clean up her messes—none of it mattered if she didn't want to change.

"I'll talk to her about the program," I said.

Patricia squeezed my shoulder.

"You're a good daughter. But you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Remember to take care of yourself too."

The words followed me as I walked to my mother's bedside.

She was awake now, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, streaked with gray I pretended not to notice.

She looked smaller somehow, diminished by the hospital gown and the tubes running from her arm.

"Baby?" Her voice was hoarse and uncertain. "What happened? Where are we?"

I pulled the visitor's chair closer to her bed.

"You're in the hospital, Mom. You had too much to drink two nights ago and fell. Do you remember?"

She frowned, concentrating.

"I remember being sad. About work, about money. Everything's felt so heavy lately."

My throat constricted.

She sounded so young, so lost.

This was the mother I remembered from childhood—vulnerable, honest, needing protection instead of providing it.

"The doctors want you to stay for a week," I told her. "There's a program here that can help you get better."

"A week?" Panic flickered across her features. "Sadie, I can't afford to miss work for a week. We need?—"

"Mom."

I took her hand, surprised by how cold her fingers felt.

"You lost your job three days ago. Remember? You called in sick too many times."

The memory returned slowly, and with it, the shame that made her turn away from me.

"Oh. Right."

"Let them help you," I whispered.

"Please. I can't keep doing this alone."

She squeezed my hand, and for a moment, I saw a flash of the woman who used to braid my hair and read me bedtime stories.

"Okay, baby. I'll try."

My phone vibrated as I was walking through the school parking lot.

The caller ID showed Mia's name, and guilt immediately flooded my system.

My best friend had been texting for two days, worried about my radio absence from our usual group chat.

I answered on the third ring.

"Hey, sorry I've been MIA."

"Sadie! Finally. I was starting to think you'd been abducted."

Mia's voice carried genuine concern.

"You missed book club last night, and you never miss book club. What's going on?"

I paused beside my car, watching other teachers arrive for the day.

How could I explain that my mother was in detox without admitting I'd been lying about our living situation for months?

"Family stuff," I said vaguely.

"Everything's fine, I just had to handle some things."

"Family stuff with your mysterious mother I've never met?" Mia's tone sharpened.

She had always been too perceptive for my comfort.

"Sadie, in three years of friendship, you've never once mentioned her visiting or you visiting her. Where does this woman actually live?"

Heat crept up my neck and I rubbed it away. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how? Is she sick? In trouble? Talk to me."

The kindness in her voice nearly broke my resolve.

I wanted to tell her everything—about finding Mom unconscious, about the hospital, about the bills piling up and the electricity notice and the way I hadn't slept properly in months.

But admitting the truth meant admitting I'd been lying by omission for years, and all I wanted was to feel normal for once in my adult life.

"She's been struggling with some health issues," I said. "I'm helping her through a rough patch."

"Oh, honey." Mia's voice softened immediately. "Why didn't you say so? Do you need anything? I can bring dinner, or help with errands, or?—"

"No," I said quickly. "Thank you, but we're managing. I just need to get through this week."

There was a pause, and I could practically hear Mia's brain working.

She knew I wasn't telling her everything, but she was too good a friend to push.

"Okay," she said finally. "But I'm here if you change your mind. And Sadie? Whatever's happening, you don't have to handle it alone."

If she only knew how alone I actually was.

I pocketed my phone and headed inside.

I knew I should be with Mom still, but making a new lesson plan and helping find a different sub for the day were harder than just pushing through the stress of it.

So here I was, walking into work with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Usually, the kids' energy fed mine, but that morning, every sound grated against my nerves.

"Good morning, class," I managed, forcing brightness into my voice as I joined the chaotic scramble of unpacking backpacks and squeaking of chairs' feet on the floor.

I felt like hiding, not teaching, and then Eloise tugged on my sleeve, her dark eyes bright with concern.

"Miss Quinn, are you sad?"

The question stopped me cold. "What?"

"You look sad. Teachers aren't supposed to be sad."

She studied my face with the brutal honesty only children possessed.

"Did someone hurt your feelings?"

Twenty-two other faces turned toward me, suddenly interested in their teacher's emotional state.

I forced a smile that felt brittle around the edges.

"I'm not sad, Eloise. Sometimes, grown-ups just feel tired, that's all."

"My dad gets tired too," she said solemnly. "He says that's why he needs coffee and quiet time."

Eloise patted my arm matter-of-factly, and I forced another smile at the mention of her father.

Coffee and quiet time.

If only my problems could be solved so simply. But a very sick parent and bills coming out my ears weren’t things coffee could fix.

An arranged marriage, however, could remove a mountain of stress.

I ushered them to their desks to get the day started and sat down while they did a worksheet, staring at my phone as it buzzed with incoming calls.

The number wasn't saved in my contacts, but I recognized it from the collection notices that had been flooding my mailbox.

I let it go to voicemail.

Then I let the second call go to voicemail too—that number was the hospital intake lady I didn't have privacy to talk to.

The third time it rang, one of the students looked up and said, "Miss Quinn, should you have your phone in school?"

"You're absolutely right," I told him, switching the phone to silent.

But the damage was done.

The calls were a reminder of everything waiting for me outside the building—past-due bills, a mother in detox who would need round-the-clock supervision when she was released.

How was I supposed to afford an outpatient program for her?

How much did that even cost?

More than I had, certainly.

I deleted both voicemails without listening to them.

Whatever threats or deadlines they contained, I couldn't handle them right then, and when I slid my phone into my jacket pocket, my hand found Harrison's note.

The receipt paper was soft from repeated folding and unfolding.

I had memorized every word by then, but I read it again anyway.

The phone number was written in confident script beneath his signature.

I had stared at those digits so many times I could've recited them in my sleep.

Ten numbers that could change everything.

He could save me.

Not just financially, though the money would solve every immediate problem I was facing.

But he could save me from that bone-deep exhaustion, from the constant fear that I was failing everyone who depended on me.

He could give me a life where I didn't have to choose between paying for groceries and keeping the lights on.

But the cost.

Five years of my life, tied to a man I barely knew.

Five years of living in his world, playing by his rules, being whatever he needed me to be.

And the idea of getting attached to him, only for that five-year period to be over and for him to walk out on me.

I knew it wasn't the same as my father deserting us, but somehow, my heart refused to allow that to happen.

Except when he had looked at me in that restaurant, I hadn't felt like he was shopping for a commodity.

I had felt seen.

Understood.

Valued for who I was, not what I could provide.

Maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

My phone buzzed and I glanced around the room.

The children all had their heads down working on math, and I felt anxious about Mom being all alone.

So I pulled my phone out to see a notification about a text from an unknown number.

I knew I shouldn't but I opened it, and my heart stopped.

Harrison: 3:47 PM: Hi Sadie, this is Harrison. I wanted to check in and see how you're doing. No pressure, but my offer stands if you need anything. I hope your mother is okay.

I stared at the message for a full minute.

He was checking on me?

Not pushing for an answer, not pressuring me to decide.

Just… caring about my wellbeing.

When was the last time someone had done that?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I could've ignored the message, pretended I had never seen it.

Gone home that night to my empty apartment and spent the evening figuring out how to stretch twenty-seven dollars until next payday.

Or I could take the leap that terrified and tempted me in equal measure.

Before I could second-guess myself, I typed out a response.

Sadie: 3:52 PM: Can we talk again tonight?

I hit send before courage abandoned me.

The answer came immediately.

Harrison: 3:52 PM: Of course. My place, 8 PM? Or would you prefer somewhere else? I’ll send you my address.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

This was happening.

I was actually considering this insane proposal from a man who could buy and sell my entire life without noticing the expense.

Sadie: 3:53 PM: Your place works. See you then.

Harrison: 3:53 PM: Looking forward to it.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and returned my attention to the classroom, but everything felt different then.

The children's laughter sounded brighter, even though they should've been focusing, and the sunshine was warmer on my face as I looked toward the window.

For the first time in months, possibility existed beyond mere survival.

That night, I would sit across from Harrison Vale and decide whether to sign my life away for five years.

The terrifying part wasn't that I might say yes.

It was that I already wanted to.