OWNED BY THE BILLIONAIRE

DAMIEN'S POV

"Hey! There's a line here!" shouts a man somewhere behind me. He sounds angry, but I don't give a fuck.

The Chief of Medicine himself said we'd always get the priority here, so that guy can go to another hospital if he wants.

I guarantee, though, that there's no place in the world where everyone is treated equally. That's just a hippie pipe dream.

Hey, I don't make the rules. I just happen to be good at this game called life, and I'll admit there were also quite a few lucky rolls of the dice. So there are benefits to being an Anderson.

You can hardly blame a man for taking advantage of all the privileges he's been given, especially at a time like this.

A young nurse behind the laminated counter fixes her green eyes on me like she's ready to chew me out. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to go back to the end of the-"

"Listen," I say calmly, cutting her off. "Maybe you're new and you have no idea how things work around here, so I'm going to let that attitude slide. You're going to do exactly as I say or you're going to lose your job. Understand?"

She looks bewildered, her pretty green eyes big as saucers. No doubt her training hasn't prepared her for this.

To her credit, she shuts up and gives me a small nod. There's a hint of defiance in the way she clenches her jaw. She's indignant, but she doesn't want to get fired.

Smart girl.

Under normal circumstances, I'd crush every little sign of impudence in her. She looks exactly like the kind of girl I'd enjoy doing that to. But this is not the time.

"Lily," I say as I glance at the name tag on her chest. "Get someone who's in charge and tell them Charles Anderson needs immediate attention. Repeat the name for me so I know you understand me."

"Charles Anderson," she says with a pair of furrowed brows over her angry eyes. She's not happy about being treated like an imbecile, but I need to know she's going to relay the correct message.

My father needs immediate medical attention; who cares if her feelings get hurt?

"Good girl. Now go," I say. I'd love to watch her walk away. The baby-blue scrubs she's wearing don't cling to her body, but I can just make out some little indications of the tantalizing curves underneath. I'm sure I could get a better idea if I took a better look.

I have more important things to do, though. I turn around to see the automatic glass doors of the main entrance part to let Dad into the lobby of St. Mary Hospital.

Some guy from the office has managed to find a wheelchair for him. Dad is clutching his chest. He looks like he's in pain. His breaths are labored, his whole body covered in a layer of cold sweat.

Seeing him in that condition makes me want to shout at somebody to fix him right away, or at least give him something to get rid of the pain. The man seems weak; it just looks wrong.

"Mr. Anderson?" A voice from behind the counter calls me. A man's voice this time, alert and ready to jump into action.

When I turn around, I see him already taking big strides around the counter to approach me. Good. This is the kind of urgency I expect from one of the biggest recipients of our corporate charity program.

"My father needs help." I put one hand on the back of the man in scrubs and lead him toward the wheelchair. I have no idea who he is, but he knows who we are and that's all that matters.

He rushes toward Dad, a couple of younger men in scrubs following behind him. I watch from the sidelines as the men do what they do best.

This is the best damn hospital in San Francisco, and this is exactly why we're so generous toward them-for times like this.

I take deep breaths and follow the men down the hallway. Depressing fluorescent lighting and the smell of disinfectants fill my senses.

My muscles slacken a little, knowing Dad is in good hands, even as my heart continues beating faster than usual. I ball my hands into fists. If it weren't for them, my father wouldn't be in this condition.

Fucking cops.