Chapter 4 - The VIP Ward
The fifth floor of St. Matthew’s Hospital smelled of industrial bleach and cheap floor wax.
Unlike the gleaming, marble-floored lobby on the ground level, the renal care unit was dimly lit, overcrowded, and neglected. Paint was peeling near the baseboards, and the low, rhythmic beep of old heart monitors echoed down the narrow corridor.
Quinn walked quickly down the hall, with Lucas Hale walking beside her. Teddy Voss trailed a few paces behind, his broad frame blocking the entire width of the hallway, causing nurses and orderlies to scatter out of their way in quiet alarm.
"Room 512," Quinn whispered, stopping outside a heavy wooden door.
She pushed the door open gently.
The room was small, cold, and crammed with outdated medical machinery. Sitting up in the narrow hospital bed was Wyatt. His skin was pale with a faint yellowish tint, his body thin and frail under the hospital gown. But his eyes—bright, intelligent, and green like Quinn’s—lit up the moment he saw his sister.
"Quinn!" Wyatt smiled, though the effort clearly exhausted him. "You're early! Did you bring those cinnamon—"
He froze mid-sentence, his eyes darting from Quinn to the tall, imposing man stepping into his room wearing a suit that cost more than their family home.
"Quinn..." Wyatt said slowly, his grip tightening on his bedsheet. "Who is that?"
"Wyatt, it's okay," Quinn said quickly, rushing to his bedside and taking his cold hand. "This is... this is Mr. Hale."
"Lucas," the man corrected smoothly, standing at the foot of the bed. He looked around the small, cramped room, his sharp eyes taking in the rusted IV pole, the flickering overhead fluorescent light, and the thin blanket covering the boy’s legs. "So you're Wyatt."
Wyatt narrowed his eyes, his defensive instincts flaring despite his weakness. "Are you from the collection agency? Because Quinn told you guys we’d have the money by Friday—"
"I don't collect debts, Wyatt," Lucas said quietly. "I settle them."
Before Wyatt could ask what that meant, the door to the room swung open aggressively.
A woman in a sharp gray pantsuit stepped inside holding a thick manila folder. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun, and her expression was pinched and impatient. Behind her stood two uniformed hospital security guards.
This was Mrs. Gable, the chief billing manager of St. Matthew’s.
"Miss Beckett," Mrs. Gable announced loudly, not even glancing at the other men in the room. "I told you yesterday that administrative visits are restricted to visiting hours. Furthermore, as of ten o'clock this morning, your brother’s discharge order has been processed due to non-payment of the mandatory account reserve."
Quinn stood up instantly, stepping between Mrs. Gable and her brother. "Mrs. Gable, please! I brought seventy dollars in cash today, and I get my paycheck tomorrow! You can't just throw him out!"
"The county transport unit is downstairs," Mrs. Gable said coldly, pulling a pen from her pocket. "We have a three-month waiting list for this bed, Miss Beckett. Private care is for patients who can afford private care. Guards, please assist the patient in gathering his personal belongings—"
"Touch that boy," a voice growled from the corner of the room, "and I'll have your hands cut off."
Mrs. Gable froze. She turned her head, finally looking at the man standing near the window.
For a second, she didn't recognize him. But then her eyes landed on Teddy Voss standing in the doorway, and then back to the imposing figure in the charcoal suit.
Mrs. Gable’s face drained of every drop of color. Her pen slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the linoleum floor.
"Mr.... Mr. Hale," Mrs. Gable stammered, her voice dropping two octaves into sheer terror. "I... I didn't realize you were visiting the facility today. The board wasn't notified—"
"Because I didn't notify them," Lucas said calmly. He walked over to Mrs. Gable, stopping mere inches from her face. He was nearly a foot taller than her, towering over her like an impending storm. "Tell me, Mrs. Gable. What is the total outstanding balance for Wyatt Beckett’s care?"
"Fourteen... fourteen thousand, eight hundred and twenty dollars," she whispered, backing up until her spine hit the doorframe.
Lucas reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek leather checkbook, and a gold fountain pen. He wrote a swift line across a check, ripped it off, and slapped it against Mrs. Gable’s chest.
"There's fifty thousand," Lucas said softly. "Clear his balance. Right now."
Mrs. Gable stared at the check in her trembling hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Mr. Hale... this is... this is incredibly generous, but the discharge order has already been cleared by Dr. Vance, the head of the department—"
"Then go un-clear it," Lucas commanded. "And while you're doing that, arrange for Wyatt Beckett to be transferred immediately to the private VIP suite on the eighth floor."
"The eighth floor?" Mrs. Gable gasped. "That wing is reserved for board members and major donors!"
Lucas leaned in closer, his gray eyes flashing with a terrifying light. "I am a major donor, Mrs. Gable. In fact, by five o'clock today, I am going to own this entire hospital. Now get out of my sight before I decide to audit your personal expense reports."
Mrs. Gable didn't say another word. She grabbed the two security guards by their sleeves and practically fled down the hallway, leaving the door wide open behind her.
Silence returned to Room 512.
Wyatt sat stunned in his bed, looking at his sister, then at the strange billionaire mobster who had just wiped out their life's debt with a flick of his wrist.
"Quinn..." Wyatt whispered, his voice trembling. "What is going on?"
May you like
Quinn turned to Lucas. Tears were streaming down her face again, but this time, they weren't tears of terror. She stepped toward him, holding out her hands. "Mr. Hale... Lucas... I don't know what to say. I can never repay this—"
"You don't owe me anything, Quinn," Lucas said quietly, stopping her words. "Your mother paid this bill twelve years ago."
