The CEO's Unexpected Wife

Nova’s POV

“Hey, are you okay?” a man’s voice asked as I stumbled over my own feet.

I shook my head, trying to steady myself. “I… I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled. I clutched my bag strap tighter and took a deep breath. New York air felt heavy in my lungs, like I could never get enough.

“You look new here,” he observed kindly. “First time in the city?”

I managed a small nod. “Just arrived,” I said. My throat was dry. My heart pounded. “I’m looking for work.”

He gave me a polite smile and moved on. I watched his back disappear into the crowd. I realized I was standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, bag hanging low on my shoulder, shoes scuffed from the long walk. My chest tightened. I knew what that meant. I had not eaten all day. My inhaler rattled in my pocket. I checked: one puff left.

I had left my home in Hallow Creek with only one bag and hope. No one to meet me here. No plan but to survive. Every step felt like a gamble.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit. I stopped at a lamppost to steady myself. The city lights blurred. I pressed my hand to my chest. Each breath felt like a battle. I thought of my mother, gone now, lying alone in a small grave back home. I swallowed hard, fighting panic.

Then I heard it: a strange gasp, like someone choking. I looked up. An old man had collapsed at the curb. People walked by without a pause. Some glanced, whispered, then turned away.

“Somebody help him!” I called out. My voice echoed. But no one moved. No one looked. The man lay on the pavement, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He clawed at his chest, eyes wide with fear.

I felt a shock in my own chest. I knew that look. I had seen that fight for air many times. I felt compassion and terror at once. My legs moved before I thought. I knelt beside him.

“Sir, can you hear me?” I asked, though I was not sure. His lips were blue. His breaths were shallow. I reached into my pocket. My fingers closed around the inhaler.

“Don’t touch him!” a voice barked. A security guard stepped forward, stiff and tense.

I barely heard him. I knew I had seconds. “I have asthma too,” I said, ignoring the guard. “I know how it feels.” I pressed the inhaler between the old man’s lips. “Just… breathe.” I squeezed, delivering one puff.

His body twitched. He coughed in a low, rattling sound. Dust and spit flew. I held his head steady. My heart pounded so loud I thought the man might hear it.

“Call an ambulance!” I shouted to a passerby. A young woman on her phone hesitated, then dialed 911. Sirens seemed far away, but I sensed help was coming.

“Hang on,” I whispered to him. “Hang on. You can do this.”

I felt tears behind my eyes. But I swallowed them. There was no time. I pressed another puff of my inhaler into his mouth. My lungs burned, but I forced myself to stay calm. I listened to his shallow breathing, hoping each inhale would be easier.

Moments later, sirens approached. Two paramedics jumped out and rushed to us. They knelt and took over. They asked questions I answered quickly: “Yes, she gave him an inhaler.” They nodded, inserted oxygen mask, checked his pulse. They worked fast.

I stepped back, chest heaving. I felt dizzy, adrenaline crash after rush. I sank to my knees again, hands on my thighs. My head spun. I closed my eyes, gasping.

A paramedic touched my shoulder. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

I blinked. “I… I’m fine.” I tried to smile but felt weak. “He’ll be okay?”

“He’s stable now. You saved him,” the paramedic said. “Thank you.”

I nodded, unable to speak. He helped me to my feet. I could feel all eyes on me. Some with gratitude, most with curiosity. I held my bag tighter and backed away.

Later, I stood outside the hospital doors, watching the ambulance doors close behind them. A nurse stepped out and approached me.

“Thank you for helping him,” she said. Her voice was gentle. “He asked for you. Can you come in?”

I swallowed. “Is he… is he going to be all right?”

“He’s stable. But he’s older and had a bad attack. Please come in.” She held the door for me.

I stepped into the sterile hall. The smell of disinfectant and cold air wrapped around me. My clothes smelled of street. I felt out of place in my worn jeans and old jacket, hair tangled from the city wind. I rubbed my arms to warm up.

She led me down a corridor to a private room. The door opened, and I saw him: an old man lying in the hospital bed, hooked to monitors and IV. Even lying there, he had a presence. Strong jaw, lined face, silver hair. He looked at me with curious eyes.

“Come closer,” he rasped. “It is you, isn’t it?”

I stepped in. My heart twisted. “You’re Mr. Belmore?” I asked softly. I had heard the name in whispers on the street: the Belmores were rich and powerful. But how could I know this man?

He weakly extended a hand. “Yes. I am Ambrose Belmore.”

Shock hit me. I knelt at the bedside. “I… I’m Nova Ellion. I gave you my inhaler. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know who you were.”

He squeezed my hand. “You saved me. You have no idea how lucky I am.” His voice trembled with emotion.

I swallowed. “I just did what I could.”

He studied my face as if looking for something. I felt exposed. My bag pressed at my side. I noticed the small cut on my knee from kneeling on the rough concrete.

He waved at the chair. “Sit. Tell me your name again.”

I sat. “Nova. Nova Ellion. I came from Hallow Creek.”

He nodded slowly. “Why New York?”

I exhaled, remembering the lonely train ride. “I need work. I have no one back home now. My mother died. I have nowhere else.”

He looked at me long. “Your mother died?” The question was gentle.

I blinked. “Yes. Last year. I’m alone.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “You risked your life for me.” His voice was firm. “Not many would do that.”

I shrugged. “People ignored him. I know that feeling. I had asthma since I was young. I almost died many times. I just knew I could help.”

He smiled faintly. “You have courage.” He coughed and winced. A nurse came in and adjusted his IV. I stood and stepped back.

“Rest now, Mr. Belmore,” the nurse said. She looked at me. “Thank you for bringing her in.” She nodded.

I turned to leave, but he called me back. “Nova… wait.”

My heart skipped. I paused at the door.

“Yes?”

He sat up a little, pain in his eyes. “Do you have a place to stay?”

I hesitated. “No. I was going to find a shelter or cheap room.”

He frowned. “You cannot stay in shelters. Too dangerous. You should rest.”

“I can’t stay here.” I shook my head. “I don’t have money. I’ll find a place.”

He leaned forward. “You saved me. I owe you. I want to help.”

I looked at him. Part of me wanted to refuse. I had learned never to rely on strangers. But something in his gaze made me curious. “I don’t know how you could help,” I said softly.

He reached out, touching my hand again. “I want you to stay here tonight. In the guest room at my house. You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”

My breath caught. “Your house? Sir, I can’t impose.”

He shook his head. “It’s not an imposition. You are injured too, I see. You have cut knee, you look pale. Please.”

I glanced at my torn jeans and scraped skin. He was right. I felt weak. My heart said yes, but my mind screamed caution. “I… thank you,” I whispered.

He smiled. “I will send someone to bring you. Rest now.” He lay back, closing his eyes.

I left the room, heart racing. Outside, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. What was I doing? Going to a stranger’s house—one who could be dangerous. But he had just nearly died; now he offered me shelter. In New York, chance favors the bold? Or betrays the unwary?

My phone buzzed. A message from a friend back home: “Send money soon?” I had no money. I typed a quick reply: “Still finding work. Will call.” I tucked my phone away.

A uniformed attendant appeared. “Miss Ellion?” she asked. “Mr. Belmore asked me to bring you to his house. Please follow me.”

I nodded, heart pounding. I followed her through bright corridors, down an elevator, out into the bustling streets. The car that awaited was black and sleek. I climbed in, feeling the door close like fate itself. The city blurred past as we drove.

Inside, I stared at my reflection in the tinted window. Who was I now? A poor girl from nowhere, heading to a stranger’s mansion? My mind spun with doubt and fear. Yet part of me felt hopeful. Maybe this was the break I needed. Maybe I could find work here. Maybe… maybe I could change my life.

The car stopped before a grand building. Glittering lights, polished steps, tall windows. I swallowed and stepped out. The attendant led me inside.

A warm foyer greeted me. Soft light, art on the walls, polished floors. I felt out of place in my scuffed shoes. My bag felt too small for this world.

Footsteps sounded. A tall young man in a sharp suit appeared. He had dark hair, cool eyes, and a look of surprise when he saw me.

“Grandfather?” he asked sharply. His tone was cold.

I froze. This must be Zayn Belmore, the grandson. He studied me from head to toe, judgment clear in his gaze.

“I brought her,” the attendant said quietly. She left without a sound.

Zayn’s eyes flicked to the attendant, then to me. “Who is she?”

The old man’s voice echoed from behind: “Zayn, this is Nova. She saved me.”

I turned to see Ambrose in a wheelchair, pale but alert. He smiled at me weakly. “She saved me from a bad attack.”

Zayn’s gaze hardened. “She looks like a street girl.”

My cheeks burned. I clenched my bag strap. I wanted to run. But the old man’s eyes held me. Ambrose reached out a trembling hand. “Zayn… you owe me. She saved my life.”

Zayn’s jaw tightened. “Grandfather, you can’t be serious.”

Ambrose coughed. His face went pale. The monitor he was on beeped urgently. “Nova…” he whispered. “Stay.”

Zayn glared at me. I felt trapped between fear and duty. The house was silent except for the monitor’s beeps.

Then Ambrose’s eyes closed, and the machine alarm rose louder.

“Grandfather!” Zayn rushed forward as attendants appeared.

I stood frozen, heart pounding. His last words echoed in my mind: “Stay.”

Nova’s POV

“Grandfather, I don’t understand,” Zayn’s voice was low but edged with anger. I stood just inside the grand foyer of Ambrose’s mansion, my heart pounding so hard I thought he might hear it. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne pressed around me.

Ambrose Belmore, weak but determined, gestured toward me from his armchair by the window. “Zayn, you know you owe me a debt,” he said, his voice steady despite the tubes and monitors surrounding him.

“Yesterday, this young lady—Nova—saved me from an asthma attack. I ask only one thing: you marry her.”

I froze. My bag felt heavier on my shoulder. My cheeks burned. I had never dreamed of such a thing. Marry a stranger? Especially one like Zayn Belmore, the cold CEO who barely spared me a glance?

Zayn strode into the room, his tailored suit crisp, eyes flicking from Ambrose to me. “Grandfather, I’ve never met her. I don’t know her.

You expect me to marry a woman I know nothing about? Ho