Book 4 Marry for Money
Everyone at Cleveland Medical Center said I looked just like my mother had five years
ago.
The same white coat, the same position as the Director of Cardiac Surgery.
But my mother would never see this day.
I had dreamed more than once of that car accident. My mother had promised to come to my surgery, but she was forever stopped at the hospital’s entrance.
Outside the emergency room, I had overheard a nurse say the car belonged to the hospital’s deputy director.
Soon after, the deputy director had resigned,
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and the hospital had paid a hefty sum in compensation. My father had rejected the money but insisted I take my mother’s place.
At twenty–eight, I had become Cleveland Medical Center’s youngest Director of Cardiac Surgery. I knew this was my father’s expectation and my mother’s unfinished dream.
“Ms. Cohen, the operating room is ready.” A young nurse had knocked on the door, reminding me.
Today marked three months since I met Byron. That day, his heart had stopped. As he was rushed to the emergency room, I had just finished a major surgery.
I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open.
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But his EKG had jolted me awake-
myocardial infarction complicated by a heart rupture, shock, and death could occur at any moment.
I had operated for six continuous hours, and he had survived.
“You saved my life.” His first words upon waking, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes filled with emotions I couldn’t fully grasp.
He had told me he was in business, that the demands of his career were hard on his heart. What kind of business, he had never said, and I had never asked.
Three days later, he had been discharged but had come to the hospital every day to find me. He had brought me coffee, had meals with me, and had waited for me to finish my shifts.
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He always wore a sharp suit, a discreet luxury watch on his wrist. There had been an elegance and mystery about him in everything he did.
When you liked someone, even their mystery became endearing.
A month later, he had proposed.
When my father found out, it had been the first time he ever yelled at me: “Diana, do you even know what he does for a living? How much do you really know about him? After all these years of education, have I raised a fool who’s swayed by emotions?”
“Dad, I trust him.”
And I had still married him. At the wedding, he had promised to love me for the rest of
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his life.
I had believed him.
But recently, things at the hospital had been going from bad to worse:
The ventilator in the ICU had suddenly broken down, causing delays in the treatment of two patients.
The hospital had to pay a large sum in compensation.
Mr. Arnold had resigned, taking the entire department with him.
People said he had moved to another hospital where he had gotten a threefold salary increase.
A few long–time patients had complained
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about my attitude, claiming I was condescending and arrogant.
But I hadn’t done anything wrong.
The pharmacy supplier had raised prices for no reason–three times over.
At this rate, ordinary patients wouldn’t even be able to afford their treatment.
I had watched my father’s increasingly gaunt figure, always standing on the hospital’s rooftop, a cigarette perpetually between his fingers.
“They found out it’s a stomach condition,” my secretary had hesitated to speak, “The director’s been under too much stress lately. He’s racked up a lot of debt.”
This morning, I had been vomiting violently,
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and Dane from the emergency department had secretly run a blood test for me.
Two lines.
I had touched my still–flat stomach, already planning to surprise him when I got home that night.
He kept saying he was busy, coming home late every night. His suit had reeked of alcohol, with a faint trace of women’s perfume.
I had told myself it was just business. But those late–night phone calls–he always made sure to hide when answering them. Sometimes, I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end.
He had said it was all business and I shouldn’t think too much of it.
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I had chosen to believe him.
Passing by his study, I had thought I’d help him tidy up his papers. Lately, he’d been so busy, his desk was always a mess.
A file had slipped out of the drawer and fallen to the floor, papers scattered everywhere.
I had crouched down to pick them up, and suddenly, I had seen the red stamp: “Cleveland Medical Center Acquisition Plan.”
The logo on the cover had been so familiar -it had belonged to the country’s largest medical equipment company: the Roffe Group.
So this was his business.
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My phone had suddenly vibrated, a message from an unfamiliar number.
“Ms. Cohen, do you know why your husband suddenly had a heart attack?”
My hands had begun to tremble.
“He faked it.”
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