Flash Marriage To The Coldhearted Billionaire Uncle

"I need the five hundred thousand dollars by tomorrow, Dr. Fletcher." Ariel Melton gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Or she doesn't get the surgery."

Julian Fletcher's voice was tired, defeated. "Ariel, I've pushed it as far as I can. NewYork-Presbyterian needs the deposit. I'm sorry."

The line went dead. Ariel stood in the hallway of the Upper East Side townhouse, the silence ringing in her ears. Five hundred thousand dollars. It might as well have been five hundred million. Her chest felt like it was caving in, her lungs struggling to pull in air.

She walked to the heavy oak door of Garrick's study. Her knuckles were white as she raised her hand and pushed it open.

Garrick Tillman sat behind his massive mahogany desk, swirling a glass of amber whiskey. He didn't look up immediately. When he did, his eyes were flat, annoyed at the interruption.

"Garrick." Her voice shook. She hated the tremor, but she couldn't stop it. "I need your help."

He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "My help? With what, exactly?"

"It's my mother. The experimental heart surgery... they need a deposit. Half a million dollars. It's her only chance." Ariel stepped closer to the desk, her hands clasped together like she was praying to a stone idol. "Please. We're married. You promised to support me."

Garrick set the glass down with a sharp clink. He laughed. It was a short, cruel sound that made Ariel's stomach drop.

"Your family problems are not my problems, Ariel."

She took a step back, the coldness in his voice hitting her like a physical blow. "What? Garrick, she's dying. I thought... we're supposed to be a team."

"A team?" He stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. He walked to the desk and yanked open a drawer. He pulled out a thick document and threw it onto the desk. It landed with a heavy thud.

Ariel's eyes dropped to the bold black letters on the cover: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Her blood ran cold. "What is this?"

"It's exactly what it looks like." Garrick walked around the desk until he was standing right in front of her, looking down at her with pure disgust. "Three years, Ariel. Three years and your belly is still flat. Not a single heartbeat."

He reached out and poked a hard finger into her stomach. Ariel flinched, the shame burning through her veins like acid.

"A woman who can't give the Tillman family an heir is worthless," he said, his voice low and venomous. "A hen that can't lay eggs gets slaughtered."

Tears pricked Ariel's eyes. The deepest, darkest wound she carried, the one the doctors had confirmed was her fault, was now being thrown in her face. "I went to the doctors," she whispered, her throat tight. "They said it's me. My body is the problem. I'm taking the vitamins, I'm doing the hormone treatments..."

"I don't have time for your treatments." Garrick stepped back, his lip curling. "Lacey is already pregnant."

The name hit Ariel like a freight train. Lacey Thorne. Her friend. His secretary.

The room tilted. Ariel couldn't breathe. Betrayal and humiliation crushed her chest. "Lacey?"

"Yes. She's carrying my son. My heir." Garrick pointed at the divorce papers. "Sign it. Walk away with nothing. That's the only contribution you can make to this family now."

The despair inside Ariel curdled into a hot, sharp anger. "Three years," she choked out. "I gave you three years of my life! Was it all just a lie?"

"It was a transaction." Garrick's face was devoid of any emotion. "I married you because the Melton name still carried some weight, even if your father bankrupted the family. You were a good accessory. Now, you're damaged goods."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He clicked a pen, scribbled something, and ripped the check out.

He flicked it across the desk. It spun and landed face up in front of Ariel.

Five thousand dollars.

Fifty thousand percent short of saving her mother's life.

"Take it and get out of my sight," Garrick said, turning back to his whiskey. "That's my final act of charity."

Ariel stared at the check. The numbers blurred through the tears she refused to let fall. Five thousand dollars. That was what her dignity, her three years of marriage, and her mother's life were worth to him.

She didn't touch the check. She didn't look at the divorce papers. She raised her head and stared at Garrick's back, burning his cold indifference into her memory.

Without a word, she turned and walked out of the study. Every step felt like she was walking on broken glass.

Bridget O'Malley, the housekeeper, stood by the front door. Her face was a mask of cold indifference, though for a fleeting second, Ariel thought she saw a flicker of pity in the older woman's eyes before it was swiftly replaced by a practiced, fearful neutrality. She reached past Ariel and pulled the door open.

The sound of the pouring rain outside was deafening. Ariel stepped over the threshold, the cold water instantly soaking through her clothes.

The door slammed shut behind her, locking her out into the dark, stormy night.