Love at First Night: The Billionaire's First Love-Chapter 14: A million dollar offer!

>Mallory

The fluorescent lights of the hospital always made me feel exposed—like every insecurity, every crack in my heart, every sleepless night was suddenly on display for the world to see.

Asher sat in the corner of the child psychologist’s playroom, small hands balled so tightly that his knuckles looked pale. His eyes darted everywhere, and his face was laced with fear.

"Asher," I whispered gently, kneeling a safe distance away. "Sweetheart, the doctor just wants to talk to you. It’s okay."

It wasn’t okay.

He was already holding his breath, his little chest rising and falling too fast, the way he always did when the room felt too loud, too bright, or foreign.

Dr. Liora, the child psychologist, sat on a small stool with a clipboard resting on her lap. She was kind, younger than I expected, with soft brown curls tied neatly at her nape. She kept her voice low, almost like she was talking to a frightened animal she didn’t want to spook.

"Asher? Can I sit here, just here?" she asked, moving nothing but her eyes as she gestured to a spot on the floor.

He didn’t speak—of course, he didn’t—but he reacted.

He grabbed the box of building blocks beside him and flung it across the room with surprising force. Blocks scattered everywhere, hitting the wall, bouncing against the floor, colliding with a row of children’s books.

"Asher—!" My heart lurched.

He covered his ears with both hands, shaking his head violently. His breathing grew harsher, a thin wheeze escaping as tears collected in his eyelashes.

"I know," I whispered, inching forward. "I know, baby. Mommy’s here."

I tried to get closer—just close enough to cup his cheek—he recoiled instantly but quickly settled with familiarity.

"Don’t worry, sweetie, the sister is here to make you feel better."

He pushed himself back until his small body hit the playroom wall. His shoulders curled inward, every muscle trembling like he was bracing for something terrible.

"Let’s give him space," Dr. Liora said softly. She didn’t sound alarmed, just patient. Understanding. "He’s overwhelmed. This level of sensory overload and fear response... it will take time."

Time.

Money.

I just flashed her a wry smile. I stayed kneeling on the floor, my hands resting uselessly on my thighs, forcing myself to breathe slowly so he wouldn’t sense my panic. Asher always felt my emotions like they were his own—my fear made him afraid, my stress turned him into a fragile glass about to shatter.

The doctor tried again with a soft sing-song voice, "Asher, I won’t touch you. I’ll just talk. You can stay wherever you want."

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, he grabbed the nearest toy—a small plastic truck—and hurled it toward the doorway. It clattered loudly against the hospital floor, skidding across the hallway out the door.

I bowed my head, cheeks burning.

The nurse gave me a polite, sympathetic smile before stepping aside.

"I’m sorry, Mr. Archeval. A patient is currently undergoing treatment." I heard the nurse’s voice outside the door.

I pulled my son’s little body into a hug to calm him down.

Twenty minutes later, the session ended—not because Asher calmed down, but because he had exhausted himself. He now sat curled up inside the padded play tent they kept in the room, chewing anxiously on the sleeve of his sweater.

I signed papers with shaking fingers while Dr. Liora spoke softly beside me.

"He shows classic signs of trauma-induced selective mutism, combined with sensory processing difficulties. It’s going to take consistent therapy, patience, and creating very stable environments for him. The problem is–we saw signs of mildly perceptive prosopagnosia, so the treatment will be more difficult." 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

"Yes? What is that?" my breath hitched as I asked.

"It’s mild facial blindness; he was having a hard time registering people’s faces," she explained.

"I understand," I murmured.

"And today’s reaction was normal," she assured gently. "I don’t want you to think he did anything wrong."

I swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears. "I know."

But knowing didn’t make it any less painful.

I could hear the faint rustle from the tent behind me—Asher rocking slightly, rhythmically, the way he always did to calm his nerves.

The doctor placed her clipboard down. "Mommy, you’re doing extremely well. He trusts you. We just have to be patient with him."

I let out a trembling exhale. "Sometimes... I’m scared I’m failing him."

Her eyes softened with something maternal. "You’re not. The fact that you brought him here—despite everything—means you’re trying. And that’s more than most."

I nodded, even though guilt continued to gnaw at me.

Trying wasn’t enough.

Trying didn’t erase his pain. Trying didn’t erase his trauma. Trying didn’t make him suffer less.

Trying didn’t give him a normal childhood.

We walked to the billing counter, Asher glued to my side, tiny fist clutching the back of my shirt. He always held on like that—as if any second, someone might rip him away again.

When the receptionist called my name, I stepped forward with Asher practically pressed against my hip.

She printed the papers, stamped them, and slid them across the counter.

"That will be 18,700 dollars for today’s session, ma’am," she said cheerfully.

The number hit me like a punch to the chest.

Almost twenty thousand.

For one hour.

My vision blurred for a second. I blinked quickly to hide it.

"Ma’am?" the receptionist asked, leaning forward. "Cash or card?"

I swallowed so hard it hurt. "Card."

My hand trembled as I took out my worn-out debit card. There was barely enough left in my account—just enough for rent, food, and the discounted therapy sessions we came here for once a month.

I guess I have to take more jobs.

Declining treatment meant declining my son’s chance at healing. And that was never an option.

I inserted the card. My heart hammered with every beep of the machine. When the receipt was printed, I exhaled shakily, clutching it like a wound I had to hide.

"Thank you, ma’am."

I forced a smile. "Thank you."

Asher tugged at my sleeve—his sign that he wanted to go home.

"Okay, sweetheart," I whispered. "Let’s go."

I lifted him into my arms, and though he stiffened at first, he tolerated it, leaning just slightly, his forehead touching my shoulder as a sign of trust.

It wasn’t much.

But it was everything I clung to.

At home, the exhaustion hit like a wave. I placed Asher gently on the carpeted floor of the living room, where he instantly crawled toward his favorite corner—where his toy cars were neatly arranged in a line.

I leaned against the couch, burying my face in my hands.

I was so tired.

So, so tired.

Every day felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff—keeping myself from toppling over while carrying Asher on my back. And yet, I still smiled at him, played with him, cooked for him. Because if I cracked, he would crumble.

My phone rang on the table.

It’s Mara.

Of course.

She always called when something was wrong, like she had an instinct.

I wiped my face quickly and answered.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Are you alone?" I looked at Asher playing silently with a truck, his small fingers tracing the wheels again and again.

"Yeah," I said. "We just got back from the hospital."

She paused, her breath catching. "How is he?"

"Same," I whispered. "He... he threw things today. And another condition..." My voice cracked. I hated myself for letting it crack.

"Mallory," she said, voice softening, "you don’t have to take this alone. You know that."

"Yes, I do," I insisted, shutting my eyes. "I can’t—You already did so much for us these past six years. I can’t keep burdening you."

"You’re not a burden."

"I am." My voice dropped, tired and raw. "I am, Mara. And I can’t let you carry my problems anymore. I already owe you my life."

"Asher’s too," she reminded gently. "And I don’t regret a single thing."

I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. "Still... I need to stand on my own feet at some point. I have to."

"What if I told you there’s a way?" Mara said quietly.

My eyes snapped open. "What do you mean?"

"I got a job here." Her voice shifted as if trying to test the water.

My throat tightened. "Where?"

"Back home," she said. "I know the person, he’s my cousin, so you can trust him..." She hesitated, as if unsure if she should say it. "If you can pull it off... It’s a million dollars."

My heart stopped.

I stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

A million dollars.

I couldn’t even process the number.

She continued, "But the pay will only be given after you finish the job."

I slowly sank onto the couch, my knees weak.

A million dollars.

With that money, Asher could have all the therapy he needed. The best doctors. A stable home. A future.

But it also meant...

Going back.

Back to the country where everything fell apart.

Back to the place where Asher was almost killed before he was even born.

Back to the ghosts I never wanted to see again.

"Mallory?" Mara asked, worry creeping into her tone. "Are you still there?"

I looked at Asher—the small boy who trusted me with his whole world, the child who had never spoken a single word since the incident but had a heart big enough to break mine every day.

Could I drag him back to that place?

Could I risk history repeating?

Could I survive facing the past again?

My voice was barely a whisper, but I forced the words out anyway.

"...Tell me more about the job."