The Ruthless Billionaire

Chapter 4

The sight before Oliver was unbearable. Every step they took, every touch they shared, felt like a knife to his heart, twisting deeper with every moment.

Watching Mark lead Samantha to the room, his arrogant grin never left his face, and the sound of their laughter echoed in Oliver’s ears like a cruel mockery. His entire body shook, not from physical pain, but from the excruciating ache of betrayal.

The woman he thought loved him, the one he had given everything for, was now in the arms of another man—one who could offer her wealth, the very thing she had always valued over him.

The emotional toll was suffocating. The physical pain from the beating he had endured earlier was almost secondary now. His heart felt as if it was being ripped out of his chest. He had been so blind, so certain that their love was real.

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he couldn't even cry properly. All he could do was stand there, frozen in place, watching them vanish into the room together. The thought of them together, doing what was meant to be his, was more than he could bear.

A part of him wished he could scream, run to them, drag Samantha out of Mark’s arms and make her see the truth. But he couldn’t. His body was too weak, and his mind was clouded by the overwhelming emotions that flooded him.

He had nothing left. No fight, no energy to stand up for himself or for their broken marriage.

As the room became quieter, the weight of reality pressed on him. His body was growing colder, and he could feel the blood dripping from the bruises and wounds, the same blood that was slowly draining away.

He knew he had to leave before it was too late. His legs barely supported him as he stumbled out of the house, each step an effort to stay conscious. The dizziness from the blood loss clouded his vision, and his mind was foggy, but he knew he needed help.

He made his way to the street, his steps faltering, almost as if the world around him was slipping away. His thoughts became jumbled, and he didn’t even notice the fast-moving convoy speeding down the road toward him until it was too late.

His body reacted too slowly, and before he could fully comprehend it, the sound of screeching tires filled the air.

The convoy came to a sudden halt just inches from him, the tires screeching as the driver slammed the brakes. The noise was deafening in the silence of the street.

The driver, furious at the near accident, jumped out of the vehicle. His face was twisted in anger, his hands on his hips as he glared at Oliver, who was barely able to stand.

"Are you out of your mind?" the driver shouted, his voice full of disbelief. "You almost got yourself killed!"

Oliver couldn’t respond. He was too weak, too far gone to speak or even lift his head.

The driver was still ranting, his frustration bubbling over as he paced around Oliver, unable to comprehend what had just happened. "What were you thinking, man?" he muttered, but before Oliver could respond, he collapsed to the ground.

It was only when the driver approached closer and saw the lifeless state of Oliver that the full weight of the situation hit him.

He froze for a moment, confusion washing over him. Was the man dead? He wasn’t sure what to do, his mind racing, his hands trembling.

Just then, a woman in a sleek suit emerged from one of the cars. Her presence was commanding, and she was clearly angry, demanding to know what was causing the delay.

When her eyes landed on Oliver, the anger in her expression shifted to a cold fury. She stepped closer and, without hesitation, ordered the driver, “Take him to the car. He needs medical attention now!”

“Get him to a hospital. Now!” Madam President’s voice brooked no argument.

The driver scrambled, quickly opening the back door and gently lifting Oliver's limp body into the car. His heart pounded in his chest as he started the engine, rushing off toward the nearest hospital.

Madam President sat silently beside Oliver’s unconscious form, her face grim but determined. She wasn’t about to let anyone die on her watch—not even someone like him.

Once they arrived at the hospital, the staff immediately took notice of the car pulling up. It wasn’t every day that a convoy of this magnitude arrived at the hospital, and especially not with Madam President herself in tow.

The moment the staff saw her, they hurried toward the car, already aware of the gravity of the situation. The hospital was well-known, the place where the most important people in the country came for their treatment.

The driver quickly rushed into the building, calling for help. A nurse immediately followed, pushing a stretcher toward the car, and together they carefully lifted Oliver’s battered body onto it.

As they wheeled him into the hospital, the head doctor was already there, his face immediately grim as he assessed the condition of the young man. Madam President was right behind them, her posture firm as she demanded attention for Oliver.

The doctor quickly got to work, examining him. “He’s lost a significant amount of blood,” he reported, his voice low but urgent. “He’s lucky you brought him in when you did. If it had been any later, he might not have made it.”

Madam President didn’t flinch, but there was an undeniable intensity in her eyes. “Make sure he survives. Do whatever it takes.”

Inside the room, the doctors were working hard to stabilize Oliver’s condition. Once they had done everything they could to keep him from slipping away, they needed to document him, to process the situation.

"Doctor, do we have any form of identification for the patient?" one of the nurses asked, looking up from the computer screen. They needed a name to proceed with official documentation.

The doctor shook his head. "Nothing in the room, but he was unconscious when they brought him in. Check his pockets; maybe we’ll find something."

One of Madam President's men, who had been standing by the door, quickly moved to Oliver's side. He rummaged through the young man’s pockets, his fingers brushing over his wallet and a few crumpled receipts. His heart raced as he fished out a small ID card.

The man took a deep breath and, without thinking, began reading aloud the name that was written there.

"Oliver... Donovan... born March 27th, 1999."

The words hung in the air.

Madam President, who had been standing silently, froze. The sound of the name, the date—it struck her like a lightning bolt. She turned sharply toward the man who had read the card, her face pale but tense with a sudden surge of emotion.

"Oliver Donovan," she muttered under her breath, her mind instantly racing. She stepped closer to the man who had read the card, her heart pounding in her chest. "The date of birth... It can’t be..."