Good morning, doctor."
"Morning, Miss. Pierce" the doctor replied, offering her a warm smile that eased some of the tension in Camilla's chest. After completing the routine procedures and confirming her baby was safe, she excused herself to use the washroom.
As she walked down the hallway, a pair of voices drifted from the director's office. She slowed her steps.
"…renovating the entire hospital," the director was saying.
The words lit a spark in Camilla's mind. An idea—reckless but golden—burst through her thoughts. And before she could talk herself out of it, she let her knees buckle.
She hit the cold floor deliberately, closed her eyes, and held her breath.
Moments later, chaos erupted.
"Doctor, doctor! A lady has fainted on the sixth floor!" a nurse screamed into the intercom.
Within seconds, Camilla found herself on a stretcher, rushed into room 227. The doctor stormed out of his office, his face tight with concern.
"What's going on here?"
"A lady fainted in front of the director's office—sent to 227," a staff member answered, unaware that the director himself was standing behind him.
Mr. Gurah pushed the door open—and stopped short.
Camilla was sitting upright on the hospital bed, perfectly conscious.
His face hardened. "Did you fake your unconsciousness?" Disdain dripped from every syllable.
Camilla exhaled softly. "I'm sorry… but I need this."
"You have three minutes to leave this hospital," the director snapped. "Or you'll find yourself behind bars."
He turned to leave, but Camilla stepped in front of the door, blocking his path. Her hands trembled slightly, but her resolve did not.
"Move," he barked. "Security! Security!"
"I am pregnant," Camilla warned sharply. "If your guards lay a finger on me, and anything happens to my child… I won't hesitate to act. Don't blame me for whatever happens next."
Her voice cut through the air like a blade. The director paused, studying her with a mixture of irritation and wariness.
"What do you want?" he asked at last, recognizing the fire in her eyes.
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she began carefully, "but I overheard you discussing the interior redesign of this hospital."
"So?" His irritation grew visible.
"And I think," Camilla continued, lifting her chin, "that I can do the job."
The director blinked—and then laughed. A loud, mocking laugh. "What's your name?"
"Camilla Peirce"
"Well, Miss Peirce, this isn't child's play."
The insult stung. Just a year ago, she had turned down a contract worth Billions from Eastern Bridge Hospital—a facility ten times the size of this one. Yet here she was, practically begging.
"Let's make a deal," Camilla said, her voice steady. "Give me one week. I'll draft a complete design for both the hospital and your house. If you like it, you hand me the contract."
He stared at her, amusement tugging at his lips. "Fine. It's a deal. But if you fail…" He leaned closer. "You'll spend one year in prison."
With that, Mr. Gurah walked out, leaving Camilla alone in the sterile room, the weight of her impulsive decision crashing onto her shoulders.
She pressed a hand to her forehead.
What had she just done?
Designing a seven-story hospital and a penthouse with four master-sized bedrooms—in one week?
Even for her… this was madness.