Contracted to the Broken Alpha

Chapter 2 A bad news

He throws a crumpled bill on the counter and walks out, leaving me shaking with anger.

But he’s wrong. I’m not dreaming. I did design that boardroom. And if Ryan Jones needs a wife to save his empire… maybe I can use that. It could solve everything. My debt, my rent, the big hole in my life where my future used to be.

The idea is completely, totally crazy.

But crazy is all I have left.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my apron pocket.

It’s a number I don’t know. It’s probably another bill collector. I know their tricks, their different area codes. But this call feels different. I press the phone to my ear.

“Hello, this is Sarah Miller,” I say.

“Sarah Miller?” a woman’s voice says on the other end. She sounds calm and professional, but also a little careful.

“This is her.”

“This is Dr. Martinez from Mercy General Hospital. Are you Daniel Miller’s emergency contact?”

The world stops.

“Dan? What’s wrong with Dan?” My voice is a shaky whisper.

“Your brother was in a serious car accident two hours ago. He is unconscious and needs surgery right away. You need to go to the hospital immediately.”

The magazine I hid under the counter slips and falls to the floor.

Ryan Jones’s cold, handsome face stares up at me. His gray eyes seem to be laughing at me, at how helpless I am.

Two hours ago. While I was here wiping tables and hating my life, Dan… my brother… my only family…

“Is he… is he okay?” I gripped the edge of the counter to keep myself from falling.

“He’s alive,” Dr. Martinez’s voice is fast and urgent. But it’s serious. The accident caused a severe injury to his spine, specifically the L3 and L4 vertebrae. Time is everything.”

“His spine?” I choked out. “The same spot as his last accident?”

“I’m afraid so,” she confirms. Please come to the hospital right away. We need to discuss his treatment options.”

I hung up the phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t even do the simple job of untying my apron.

Dan is hurt. He could be dying.

I rip off the stained apron, throw it on the counter, grab the magazine, and run out of the coffee shop without looking back.

The subway car feels like a rattling metal coffin, speeding through the dark tunnels under Boston.

Every hard shake and screech of the wheels on the tracks makes my panic worse.

I’m holding the Fortune magazine so tightly in my hand. The smooth paper is now wet with my sweat, and the edges are soft and wrinkled.

In the flickering, dim light of the subway, his eyes look extra-sharp, like they can cut right through my fear and desperation.

“… Facing personal pressure, Jones must marry before his 30th birthday—which is only six months away—to fully inherit his grandfather’s $8 billion empire. Rivals on the board are watching his every move…”

The words feel less real every time I read them, like something out of a messed-up fairy tale. But they are printed right there, in a big, important magazine. It has to be true. If I can just find him, stand in front of him, and offer him a deal—a twelve-month marriage, a simple contract, no feelings, just business—would he even listen? It sounds completely crazy, a plan born from pure desperation.

The subway doors chime, and I push my way through the crowded car, not caring who I bump into. My old sneakers squeak on the dirty platform floor as I start to run. The hospital building looms across the street, its windows reflecting the gray Boston sky. I know this place too well. It shows up in my nightmares.

I’ve spent countless sleepless nights here since Dan’s first accident two years ago. That was a hit-and-run. A driver I never saw hit my brother and just drove away, leaving Dan with a broken spine. I remember the endless hours I spent in those hard, cold plastic chairs, listening to a group of doctors talk about percentages and possibilities. Their voices were just a meaningless buzz in my ears.

I run across the street. A taxi honks its horn loudly right in front of me, but I don't have time to care.

The emergency room lobby is chaos. Scared families are bent over forms, their faces full of worry. Nurses with serious faces are shouting out names on a loudspeaker. "I push my way to the front desk, breathing hard. “Daniel Miller,” I gasp, leaning on the counter to keep myself steady. “Car accident. They called me.”

The nurse at the front desk is a woman in her fifties. She looks tired, but her eyes are still deep and kind. Her name tag says “Nurse Clara.” She types his name quickly into the computer, her fingers tapping expertly on the keyboard. “Room 408, ICU. Fourth floor. "The elevator is at the end of the hall.” She stops for a second, noticing my messy hair, my pale face, and the coffee stain on my shirt. “Hmm, the chart says it’s a spinal injury. With those, time is everything. Honey, you got here fast—that’s good. Don’t waste a second.”

“Spinal injury?” “How bad is it? They said… it was the same spot.”

“I’m not the doctor,” Clara says, her eyes gentle but firm. But I’ve seen plenty of cases like this. You need to hurry. Go up now. He needs you.”

I just nod, my legs feeling like they are made of lead as I walk to the elevator. The steel doors slide open, and I see my reflection—a pale, scared ghost with messy hair and empty eyes. The face of a woman whose world is falling apart for a second time.

As the elevator goes up, every floor feels like a countdown. I close my eyes and see him at fifteen, the day he got his football scholarship. He was so happy that he picked me up and spun me around and around in our tiny kitchen. “We’re going to make it, Sarah!” he’d yelled, laughing. “You’ll see!” He was supposed to start at Boston University in the fall, not be lying in a hospital bed.

I step out of the elevator and into the suffocating quiet of the ICU. The only sounds are the squeak of my shoes on the polished floor, the sharp smell of disinfectant burning my nose, and the heartless beep… beep… beep of a heart monitor in a room down the hall. I find Room 408. Through the large glass window in the door, I see him.

And my world shatters.

He is lying perfectly still. Clear tubes and colored wires are sticking out of his body like some kind of weird vine. The wires are connected to a row of machines that are blinking with cold lights. Each one is measuring a part of his life. His face is as pale as the sheets, with a deep purple bruise on his left cheek.

“Miss Miller?” Dr. Martinez’s voice cuts through my sad, foggy thoughts. She’s standing next to me, still in her blue scrubs. Her dark eyes are full of exhaustion. “Let’s go to the consultation room to talk about the surgery. We’re rushing.”

I nod like a zombie, my throat dry, and follow her into a small room across the hall. The beige room has no life in it. It's the kind of room hospitals use to give bad news. She clips a set of X-rays to a lightbox on the wall.

“Like I said on the phone, your brother’s injuries are serious,” she says, her voice low and steady. She points to a dark shadow on the film. “This crash caused new, complex fractures to his L3 and L4 vertebrae—the same spot that was hurt in his last accident, which makes things much more difficult. The bone fragments are pressing directly on his spinal cord. If we don’t operate to relieve the pressure in 72 hours, the damage will probably be permanent. He could be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life. And if we don't act fast, the nerve damage could also affect his ability to use his arms properly.”

I hold my breath. The black cracks on the X-ray look like the ruins of a collapsed building, a catastrophic failure.