Save A Son, Win A Billionaire Husband

4

Nicholas

"It isn't a coincidence, Mr. Sutton," Dr. Vance said, resting her hands calmly on her clipboard. "Trauma is a strange thing, especially in young children. When Noah was trapped in front of that speeding car, he felt absolute terror. When Miss Porter threw herself into traffic to save him, his brain processed her as an ultimate source of safety."

We were standing in the quiet hallway outside Room 402. Through the small glass window on the door, I could see Faith lying in bed, staring down at her phone with pale, stressed features.

"She broke two years of silence with a single word," I said, my voice low and tight. "Are you saying she cured him?"

"No," Dr. Vance corrected gently. "Selective mutism is complex. She didn't cure him, but she shattered the psychological wall he built after his mother passed away. To Noah, Miss Porter is safety, warmth, and protection. If you suddenly sever this connection and forbid him from seeing her, the psychological regression could be severe. He might shut down completely, and this time, we may never get his voice back."

A heavy knot twisted in my stomach.

I hated feeling helpless. I controlled a global corporation worth tens of billions of dollars, yet I was completely at the mercy of a twenty-four-year-old stranger recovering in a hospital bed.

"Thank you, Doctor," I said curtly.

Dr. Vance nodded and walked down the hall. The moment she turned the corner, my assistant Julian stepped up to my side, holding a thick leather folder.

"I have the background check on Miss Porter, sir," Julian whispered.

"Tell me," I ordered, leaning back against the cold wall.

"Her full name is Faith Elizabeth Porter. Twenty-four years old. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. Her parents died in a car accident four years ago, leaving her as the sole legal guardian of her sixteen-year-old sister, Maya."

Julian flipped a page in the folder. "Maya suffers from a rare autoimmune condition that requires expensive monthly blood treatments. To pay for the medical bills and their small two-bedroom apartment, Miss Porter works two jobs—a morning cashier at a local bakery and night shifts at a diner."

"And her connections?" I asked coldly. "Does she know anyone in our circle?"

"None, sir. Her financial history is completely clean, though extremely dire. She lives paycheck to paycheck. In fact, her employer at the bakery just terminated her employment twenty minutes ago via text message because her injuries will keep her out of work for weeks."

I looked through the glass window again. Faith was sitting alone on that wide hospital bed, her bottom lip trembling as she stared down at her phone screen. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly crushed by the weight of the world.

She didn't know who I was when she saved Noah. She had turned down half a million dollars out of pure pride and dignity. She wasn't a gold-digger, and she wasn't an enemy agent. She was just a desperate girl drowning in medical debt, trying to protect her family.

And I was a desperate father trying to protect my son.

An idea began to form in my head—a clean, mutually beneficial business transaction.

"Julian," I said. "Prepare a standard residential employment contract. High-tier salary, private living quarters, full health insurance coverage, and immediate settlement of all personal liabilities."

Julian’s eyes widened slightly. "You're offering her a position, sir?"

"My son spoke today, Julian," I said, my voice steady and resolute. "I will pay whatever price it takes to keep him speaking."

I pushed open the door to Room 402 and stepped inside.

Faith quickly blinked back a tear, sliding her cheap phone under her pillow as if trying to hide her pain from me. "Mr. Sutton," she said, her voice raspy. "I thought you left."

"I did," I replied, walking over to the side of her bed. "But I came back to make you a serious proposal."

She looked at me with cautious, tired eyes. "If this is about that cheque again—"

"It isn't," I interrupted calmly, pulling a chair over and taking a seat beside her bed. "I am not offering you a handout, Miss Porter. I am offering you a job."

Faith blinked in confusion. "A job? Doing what?"

"Become Noah's live-in companion," I said, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. "Move into Sutton Manor for six months. Your duties will be simple. You will spend time with Noah, accompany him to his daily therapy sessions, eat meals with him, and help him rebuild his confidence."

Faith stared at me as if I had grown a second head. "Mr. Sutton, I'm a bakery worker. I decorate cakes and take orders. I don't know anything about child therapy or raising the son of a billionaire."

"You don't need to," I told her honestly. "Noah has had the top child psychologists in the world for two years, and none of them made him say a word. In two years, he has rejected every high-priced nanny, tutor, and companion I hired. He screamed if they came near him. But today, he ran into your arms."

"I... I don't think that's a good idea," Faith stammered, pulling her blanket higher over her bruised chest. "I'm flattered, but I can't just move into a stranger's house."

"I will pay you fifty thousand dollars a month," I said plainly. "Your living quarters at the Manor will be private. My house staff will cater to your every need while your broken arm and ribs heal. Furthermore, my corporate health plan will immediately cover every single cent of your sister Maya's medical treatments."

Faith froze. Her jaw dropped slightly, and the color drained from her face. "How... how do you know about Maya?"

"I am a protective father, Miss Porter. I check into anyone who comes near my son," I answered smoothly. "You need money, a safe place to rest, and medical care for your sister. I need someone who can keep my son's heart open. It is a simple, mutually beneficial contract."

Faith closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. I could see the internal battle raging inside her mind. She wanted to say no out of pride, but the sheer reality of her life was crushing her.

Before she could form an answer, the heavy room door creaked open.

Noah stepped into the room, holding the hand of his security guard. In his other tiny hand, he was clutching a somewhat crumpled piece of white paper.

The moment he saw Faith, his small face lit up. He let go of the guard's hand, trotted softly across the room, and carefully set the paper down on Faith's lap.

Faith looked down, her expression softening instantly.

It was a crude drawing made with bright crayons. On the paper were three stick figures standing on a green hill under a big yellow sun. A large figure in a black suit, a small child in the middle, and a woman with long hair wearing a bright pink dress. The three figures were holding hands, and a messy red heart was drawn above their heads.

"Noah..." Faith whispered softly, her eyes welling up with real, warm tears. She looked up at my son. "Did you draw this for me?"

Noah nodded eagerly. He reached out with his tiny fingers, gently touching the edge of her soft white blanket, looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

Faith looked up at me, her voice filled with deep worry. "Mr. Sutton... he called me 'Mommy' earlier. What if staying with him makes him think I am his mother? What happens when the contract ends? I don't want to break his heart."

Her concern wasn't about the money or the luxury. Her main concern was my son's emotional well-being.

My respect for this young woman grew another notch.

"Noah lost his mother two years ago," I said softly, looking at my son. "He knows you aren't her, but right now, you represent the warmth he has been missing. We can address the future when we get there. But right now, he needs you."

I pulled a crisp white document from my jacket pocket and placed it on the bedside table, right beside a sleek silver pen.

"Think about it, Miss Porter," I said, standing up from the chair. "The offer stands. Take tonight to decide."

I gently took Noah's small hand. To my relief, he didn't throw a tantrum this time. He just stared at Faith, giving her a little wave with his small fingers as I led him toward the door.

Six hours later, I was sitting in my dimly lit study at Sutton Manor.

The large mahogany desk was covered with financial reports and corporate documents, but I couldn't focus on any of them. I kept staring at the quiet telephone resting near my hand.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Julian stepped into the room.

"Mr. Sutton," Julian said quietly. "I just received an update from our monitor at Miss Porter's apartment building. Her landlord just posted a formal three-day eviction notice on her front door for unpaid rent."

I leaned back in my leather chair, steepling my fingers. "And her sister's hospital?"

"Her insurance claim was officially rejected an hour ago," Julian added. "They are demanding an immediate payment of twelve thousand dollars to continue her treatment schedule."

I felt a slight pang of sympathy for the girl. Life was beating her down from every possible direction.

"She has no choice," I murmured quietly.

Before Julian could reply, the dark landline phone on my desk suddenly rang.

The sound was sharp and loud in the quiet study. I didn't let it ring twice. I reached out and picked up the receiver, pressing it to my ear.

"Nicholas Sutton," I said evenly.

A long silence stretched across the line for a second. I could hear the faint, nervous sound of shallow breathing on the other end.

Then, a soft, resolute voice spoke into the receiver.

"When do you want me to move in?"