My Billionaire's Last Secret: A Love Forged in Lies

Chapter 10

He didn't answer. He threw the checkbook onto the passenger seat and snarled, "Zoey Vance, stop being so childish! I told you we're not right for each other. Why are you so clingy? Can't we just end things amicably? Take my money and get lost!"

"Did you never love me?" I persisted, my voice barely a whisper.

He met my eyes, his voice flat. "No."

My tears instantly streamed down my face. He quickly reached out. I placed the car key in his hand. He stuffed another check into mine. Crying, I threw the check away. He didn't even glance at it, just started the car and drove off.

I crouched on the grass, crying and crying, surrounded by buzzing mosquitoes. I cried until I felt I could barely breathe, but Alex was truly gone.

I don’t know how long I cried. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, because my legs were covered in dense, red, swollen mosquito bites. I crouched there, weeping, until a blinding white car light spun around a corner, and I realized it was already pitch dark.

The car stopped a short distance from me. I remained crouched, unmoving. I knew Alex wouldn't come back. Maybe it was a neighbor, maybe someone else. But this world no longer concerned me. The world I had known had shattered.

A moment later, someone opened the car door and stepped out. I thought it must be a neighbor returning home; sometimes they’d recognize me coming and going and say hello. Some knew Alex’s surname and would even call me Mrs. Thorne. Hearing it then was sweet, now it felt like raw mockery. But I was too numb to think about how to respond. Maybe I should just pack up and leave this place forever.

The person walked directly towards me and stopped, then crouched down. After a moment, he offered me a handkerchief. Only then did I look up. It was Lucas Reed.

"Zoey," he said gently, "don't be foolish."

I sniffled. "Are you here to mock me?"

"What's there to mock?" he replied.

He was right. I didn't think this was a joke either, but it truly was absurd. I thought Alex and I would grow old together, loving each other until our hair turned gray. But in just one day, one short day, everything had changed.

"Why aren't you wearing any shoes?" he asked.

Only then did I look down at my feet. I had rushed out of the house so quickly, I was barefoot. And even then, Alex hadn't cared. He'd just driven away.

"Come on," Lucas said. "I'll go inside with you to get your shoes."

I was too dazed to think. He told me to go inside, so I stood up and followed. I felt like I’d cried all my strength away. My legs were weak, barely able to stand. I found my shoes inside, quickly gathered my belongings, though there was little to gather, as most things were Alex’s. I just grabbed my bag and said to Lucas, "Let's go."

He didn’t ask where. Instead, he asked, "Do you want me to book you a hotel?"

I shook my head. "I'm going back to the dorm." After a pause, I added, "I don't have any cash on me. Could you please take me?"

Lucas drove me to the university gates. As I got out and walked towards the entrance, he called out, his voice hesitant, as if he wanted to say more. Finally, he said, "Call me if you need anything."

I shook my head. I wouldn't call him or Alex ever again. From beginning to end, it had all been a joke. I was so ridiculous; why continue this charade?

I slept in the dorm for two days. Finally, my mother came looking for me at the university. Her eyelids were swollen, her eyes bruised—she hadn't slept well either. She didn’t say anything else, just, "Come home."

My stubbornness flared. "Just pretend I'm dead, Mom. I'm not coming back."

My mother lost her temper. She yelled, "Aren't you ashamed enough? If you died today, I wouldn't say a word…" Before she could finish, I opened the screen window and climbed onto the windowsill. My mother shrieked. One leg was already out the window. She clung to me, squeezing my wrist until it bruised, dragging me back from the ledge. My mother cried, "I raised you this big, don't you see how much suffering I've endured, how much hardship? What man is worth you ending your life for?"

I never thought I’d be driven to despair by a relationship. Breaking up with Lucas had been painful, but separating from Alex felt like a nightmare, like my heart and soul had been ripped out. My entire being felt like a zombie. I never imagined I'd be like this, and I knew that it wouldn't get better. I would never love anyone as I loved him again. His departure took everything with it.

My mother was still holding me, crying, but I felt tired. "Stop crying, Mom. I'll come back with you."

My mother seemed frightened by my calmness. She wiped her tears and started packing my things—just some clothes. She haphazardly stuffed them into a large bag. "I've already asked your professor for leave," she said. "Told him you were sick and needed some time off."

As she packed, she suddenly pulled out the hospital report from beneath my clothes. I saw her freeze for a moment. My heart sank, bracing myself for another slap. But Mom stared at the report for a long time, then, without a word, folded it and tucked it into her bag.

Walking downstairs, my mother held my hand the entire way, as if I were a kindergarten child. She led me to the car, buckled my seatbelt. As she buckled it, her tears fell onto my hand. "What's there to cry about, Mom?" I said. "I'm fine."

My mother didn't speak again. But I knew I was suffering. Perhaps knowing my pain, she remained silent throughout the drive. Only when we got home did she say, "Take some rest, darling. Later, Mom will find you a good hospital."

"I'm going to have this baby," I said.

My mother was speechless for a long time. After a while, she finally said, "You're so young. You have a long life ahead of you…"

"I'm going to have this baby," I repeated. "Alex doesn't want him, but I do."

My mother finally lost control. "Darling, don't be foolish! Look how hard it was for Mom to raise you. How can you follow in Mom’s old footsteps?"

"Don't worry, Mom," I said. "I won't be like you."

My mother probably found my calmness terrifying, fearing I might do something drastic. So she held back from saying more. She just advised, "Rest for a couple of days. Think it over, then we’ll talk."

Yes, I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well for days. Alex’s cruel departure replayed in my mind like a film, over and over. When he said "no," I trembled as if a knife were cutting into me. Just thinking about it made my heart ache, like a gaping hole bleeding profusely. And the worst part was, I couldn't stop it.

He said he was just playing, but even now, I loved him with a desperate, hopeless love.

I was too tired to even lift my eyelids, yet I couldn't sleep. Lying in bed, I’d think of Alex, and tears would uncontrollably well up. It felt like someone had put ice in my eyes, sour and painful. So pathetic, I mumbled to myself. What’s there to cry about? Think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better.

But I knew. Tomorrow wouldn't be better. Tomorrow might be even worse. Because the time Alex was away from me grew longer and longer, yet his image remained so clear. I would never be able to forget him.

I rested at home for a week. "Rested," but I couldn't eat or sleep. Every night, I’d wake up, my pillow soaked. I’d get up and sit in the living room, drinking glass after glass of water. But the morning sickness worsened. I’d throw up everything I ate, even water.

My mother was anxious, but my resolve grew stronger. I adamantly refused to go to the hospital. My mother cried several times, pleaded several times, and finally, I convinced her. In truth, she was forced to compromise. Though I was mentally distraught, I was consumed by a fervent resolve. My mother must have thought I was mad, but as long as I wasn't suicidal, she would agree to all my demands.

"If you're truly decided," she said, "Mom will help you withdraw from school and send you abroad to have the baby, so no one will know."

"What if they know?" I replied. "It doesn't matter. This baby is mine alone."

My mother stopped talking about the future, knowing I wouldn't listen. She began preparing my travel documents. My mood lightened slightly.

When things were calm at home, I often wondered what the future held. I said I didn't care, but inside, I was tormented. Before reading novels and watching TV, I always thought the heroines were foolish, unable to let go of a simple relationship. But experiencing it myself, I realized true feelings couldn’t be picked up or put down so easily.

At eight weeks of pregnancy, I went for a check-up myself. All indicators were normal. The doctor even pointed out the tiny embryo on the ultrasound screen. I couldn't describe how I felt. I wondered what my mother felt when she found out she was pregnant with me. She said she walked along the river, even contemplating suicide. That was twenty years ago. Now, twenty years later, I was following in her footsteps.

On the way home, I received a call from the emergency hospital. My mother had gone to pick up my passport. After leaving the immigration office, she was hit by a car. Passersby took her to the hospital. The emergency doctor found my contact on her phone, saved under "My Darling Daughter."

My mother was always so sentimental. We were all each other had, just the two of us. I was truly her heart and soul, but I was always disobedient, always doing things that angered her. When I first got the call from the hospital, I didn’t believe it, thinking it was one of those scams I’d seen on the news.

The hospital called me twice. Then the traffic police called. Still half-believing, half-doubting, I rushed to the hospital. My mother was lying alone in the ICU, a ventilator keeping her alive. The doctor said she was bbrain-dead with no chance of recovery. It was up to me how long to keep her on life support.

I didn't shed a single tear. I thought it must be a dream, a nightmare. That morning, my mother had left, reminding the housekeeper to make me soup. She said I’d lost a lot of weight recently and needed nourishing beef broth. I hadn't been able to eat anything lately, and my mother had said, "This child isn't as good as you were. When I was pregnant with you, I could eat anything, three bowls of rice at a time, half a pot of soup."

My mother hadn't wanted me to have this baby at all, but I insisted, and she eventually accepted it. There are no parents who can truly resist their children, unless they don't love them. Otherwise, even if the child is rebellious or brings shame, parents still just want to coax them to eat and stop losing weight.

But now my mother lay in the hospital room, tubes everywhere, a huge machine sustaining her breathing. She had a heartbeat, but no consciousness. No matter how I called her, she wouldn’t wake up and look at me again.

The doctor painstakingly explained that my mother wasn’t in a vegetative state, where recovery was possible. My mother was brain-dead. But in American clinical practice, brain death isn't always legally recognized as death, so they could only maintain her until I made a decision.

The traffic police officer, a gentle and compassionate man, looked at me sympathetically. "Are there any other relatives you need to inform? Let them come and be with you. There are many procedures to handle later."

"I have no relatives," I said.

I didn't even know who my father was. My mother had long since cut ties with her family. We were two solitary souls in this world. And now, she only had me.

The officer asked, "The perpetrator's lawyer wants to speak with you. Would you like to meet him?"

The perpetrator's lawyer?

"Who is the perpetrator?" I asked.

"A young man, recently gotten his driver's license, was driving under the influence. It’s entirely his fault," the officer said. "His family is quite wealthy. Since this has happened, perhaps you should talk to them first and have them cover the medical expenses."

"I don't want money," I said.

The officer had probably seen grieving family members like me before. He offered a few words of comfort and left. A moment later, two men walked in. One was a lawyer. He first offered his condolences, then said, "Given the circumstances, it's unavoidable. Any requests you have, you can put them forward."

"I want nothing," I said, "just for my mother to live."

The lawyer spoke with me for a while longer, getting no response from me, and eventually left.

That night, I stayed at the hospital. The ICU didn't allow overnight stays, so I rented a folding bed and slept in the hallway. The lights in the hallway were on, and medical staff constantly moved about, but I quickly fell asleep. In my dream, I was back in my childhood. The weather was too hot, and my mother and I slept on a bamboo mat outdoors. My mother fanned away mosquitoes, and in my hazy sleep, I heard her singing to lull me to sleep.

If only I hadn't grown up. If only life after eighteen had been just a dream. Happiness was like a mirage on the beach, so vivid, but once you truly believed in it, it would vanish with the wind, never to be seen again.

I must have been asleep, because I d of Alex. He came to the hospital to see me and sat by my bed. My tears had soaked my hair, sticking it to my cheeks. He gently brushed the damp strands away. I could even hear his sigh. The dream felt so real. I knew I still couldn't forget him. In such sorrow, he was the first person I thought of.

I woke from my dream. The hallway lights were stark white and blinding. I was still alone on the narrow folding bed, my limbs numb from uncomfortable sleep. A nurse passed by my bed. I quietly asked her the time. She said it was 3 AM.

I tried to fall back asleep but couldn’t. I lay there, staring, waiting for dawn. I thought about what to do once morning came: I needed to raise money. My mother's medical bills were astronomical. Every minute she spent in the ICU cost a fortune. But if I could save her, even if it meant losing everything, I would do it willingly.

The morning light brought a glimmer of resolve. I called a lawyer friend of my mother's, asking for legal advice. He warmly answered my questions and offered further help if needed. After talking to the lawyer, I decided not to settle with the perpetrator. Regardless of his reasons, drunk driving resulting in death or injury was a serious crime. If I didn't reach an agreement, he would go to jail. He had taken my mother, a living life, and he should learn his lesson and spend a few years behind bars. I had no intention of forgiving him, so I wouldn’t take his money.

After the morning rounds, I was allowed into the ICU. Visiting hours were only ten minutes. I stood there, unable to do anything but touch my mother’s hand. It was ice-cold from the IV drips. I held back my tears. I had to be strong.

I went to my mother’s beauty salon and found the financial director. She was panicked, having just learned of my mother’s accident. I asked her how much money she could raise. She asked me how much I needed. I didn’t know, so I just told her the cost of my mother's first day of emergency treatment. I emphasized, "It's this much every day, every single day."

The financial director, Ms. Lee, had worked for my mother’s salon for many years. I’d met her a few times. "Ms. Lee," I said, "you have to help me find a way."

"Don’t worry," she said.

I returned to the hospital with the money, feeling a little more at ease. The perpetrator's lawyer approached me again, subtly suggesting that I agree to turn off my mother's life support. I calmly told him to leave.

Earlier, I had asked my lawyer about this. He’d warned me that the other party might file a lawsuit to stop my mother's life support, as these costs would eventually fall on the perpetrator. They might be unwilling to pay such a large sum.

"If they don't pay," I said, "I will."

I had spoken with the doctors and knew it was futile, but as long as my mother was lying there, I still held onto hope. Hope for a miracle, hope that the doctors were wrong, hope that my mother would wake up. There were so many medical miracles; why should I believe that my mother truly would never wake up again?

The opposing lawyer, seeing my complete non-cooperation, smiled coldly. "You won't regret this later."

Regret what? I was fighting for my mother, my only family in this world, the woman who gave birth to me and raised me.

Those days at the hospital passed quickly, yet also very slowly. Every day, when I saw the nurses eating, I’d order takeout for myself. I couldn't eat, though; I’d just end up vomiting into the toilet. At night, I’d lie on the folding bed, constantly fantasizing about the doctor waking me up to tell me a miracle had happened, and my mother had regained consciousness.