She Told the Maid She’d Never Sleep in His Bed Again, and by Morning the Wedding Was Gone Before the Sheets Were Dry

The silence left in the bedroom was thick and heavy.

Erin stood near the edge of the bed, wrapped in Nathaniel’s heavy wool jacket, feeling an overwhelming surge of embarrassment. "Mr. Whitmore, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to cause a conflict between you and Ms. Sloan—"

"Stop apologizing, Erin," Nathaniel said quietly. He walked over to the armchair, picked up a clean dry towel from the linen rack, and handed it to her. "You did nothing wrong."

Erin took the towel, wiping her wet face and hair. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep here."

"My mother's health has been declining for months," Nathaniel said, leaning against the edge of the mahogany dresser, his posture sagging with exhaustion. "I knew she was weak, but I didn't realize how bad her nights had become. The private nurses I hired... they didn't mention her panic attacks."

"She didn't want you to worry," Erin said softly. "She knows how much stress you've been under with the wedding and the corporate restructuring. She told me last week that you carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders."

Nathaniel looked at Erin, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "She said that?"

"Yes, sir. She loves you very much."

Nathaniel looked down at his shoes, then back at Erin. "How long has your mother been at St. Catherine's?"

Erin swallowed down the lump rising in her throat. "Three months. Her cancer progressed faster than the doctors expected. The experimental treatments aren't covered by basic insurance anymore."

"Why didn't you ask for an advance on your salary?" Nathaniel asked, his brows knotting in genuine confusion. "The Whitmore Foundation has an employee relief fund specifically for medical emergencies."

Erin looked down at the hardwood floor. "I asked the household management office two months ago. Ms. Sloan handles the domestic administrative approvals now. She said... she said the relief fund was reserved for full-time executive staff, not hourly domestic crew."

Nathaniel’s entire body went rigid. "Caroline rejected your relief application?"

"She said it was company policy, sir," Erin whispered.

Nathaniel didn't say another word. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched violently along his jawline. He reached into his trousers pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number.

"Marcus," Nathaniel said into the phone, his voice cold and precise. "Call Dr. Harrison at St. Catherine’s Hospice immediately. Transfer Erin Hale’s mother to the private VIP wing under the Whitmore Family Medical Trust. Cover every expense—treatments, private nursing, specialists. Effective five minutes ago."

Erin’s eyes went wide. She stepped forward, her hands trembling beneath his suit jacket. "Mr. Whitmore... no! That’s... that’s tens of thousands of dollars! I can’t repay that!"

Nathaniel ended the call, set his phone on the dresser, and looked at her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"You don't owe me a single penny, Erin," Nathaniel said softly. "You spent your night holding my dying mother's hand while the woman I was supposed to marry was sleeping comfortably down the hall. I am the one who owes you."

He stepped closer, gently taking the wet towel from her hands and setting it aside.

"Go downstairs to the staff quarters. Change into dry clothes. Take my personal car and go to St. Catherine's. Stay with your mother as long as you need."