Page 36 of My Cruel Billionaire

“Are you crazy, man?”

“I’m not crazy.” Michael stared at the hospital’s west wing. “The new cardiac center looks nice.”

“Yeah, it is nice, and you’re going to have to park your own car. I’m not a valet, I’m a security guard.”

Michael took out his wallet and counted out more than a dozen crisp one-hundred dollar bills.

“You see, you are going to park my car for me for two reasons. Number one, I’m giving you fifteen hundred dollars cash to do so. Number two, the new cardiac center is called the Michael Wallace Cardiac Surgery Center.”

The security guard paled.

“You’re… you’re the rich guy who threw us the Christmas party, with the light-up bar and everything.”

“Yup. I’m that guy. Park her somewhere close for me, will you, son?”

Michael stuffed the man’s pocket with money. All I knew was, the matter was settled and I could safely get out of the car. I wondered how the guard was going to find Michael to give him the keys.

I didn’t care that much, though. I was out of the car and racing into the emergency room entrance. The bay doors slid open at my approach. A harried-looking security guard glanced up at me as I entered, but he didn’t challenge me. I suppose he saw a lot of worried relatives storming into the ER doors and knew the look.

I rushed to the reception desk in the ER, my palm slapping the whistle-clean surface a bit harder than I intended. The nurse behind the desk glanced up with a sour expression.

“I’m here for my son, and my mother,” I blurted. “My son’s only four, his name is Damon.”

“What’s the full name?” the woman asked with detached professionalism.

“Damon Malone,” I said. “His name is Damon.”

She typed on her keyboard for a moment and frowned.

“How do you spell that last name?”

“M-A-L-O-N-E,” I said, probably a lot louder than I needed to. “Damon is his first name.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at her screen and shaking her head. “I don’t see anyone named Damon Malone in our system as a patient.”

“But they called me and said he was here,” I gasped. “Did we come to the wrong hospital?"

Suddenly I felt Michael’s hand on my elbow. He stood behind and a little to the left of me.

“Ma'am,” he said “Is there a record of anyone with the last name Malone as a patient?”

“Just a moment.”

Michael’s presence soothed me enough that I didn’t explode while she looked it up on her computer. A moment later she nodded.

“It looks like Sherry Malone is in a recovery room.”

“That’s my mom! Recovery?” I gaped, panic shooting through me anew. “Did she have a surgery?”

“She had a procedure,” the woman said stiffly.

“What kind of procedure?”

“Ma’am, can you direct us to the recovery room?” Michael interjected himself. The nurse seemed relieved. She told him how to reach the recovery area, and then Michael led the way.

We came into a small lobby with about a dozen padded chairs. I barely noticed the one door and frosted glass reception window, because my son sat on one of the chairs.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, all calm as if nothing were wrong at all. I rushed to him and enveloped him in my arms. Relief flooded through me, tempered by the knowledge that my mother had had some kind of procedure.

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