I’m standing in the hospital hallway clutching a bill that costs more than I’ll make in three years. I haven’t bought new shoes in two years. I eat instant noodles in the dark. And I still can’t afford my mom’s next breath. I’m MISERABLE. But, in the morning, the boss sees me crying and calls me into his office. He doesn’t offer a napkin, he offers a pen.
He’s 39, he’s a CEO, and his public image is a complete disaster. The shareholders are terrified. To complete the biggest merger of his life, he needs a “stable” woman to hold his hand. Props. He chose me because I’m desperate, I’m “disposable,” and he knows I’m broke.
The contract is surgical. Six months of playing happy couple. In exchange, he writes off every medical debt my mother has. But there’s a catch: ARTICLE 4.2 — NO REAL EMOTIONS.
If I catch feelings, the funding is cut. If I broke the rules, I’d risk losing everything I’d fought for. This is a business deal where my heart is collateral.
I signed her. I sold the only thing I had left—my truth—just to keep her heart beating for another six months.
We’re at a charity gala, the “debut” of our lie. He holds me by the waist like I’m a prized trophy, and his eyes look warm to the cameras. But as soon as we step into the shadow of the balcony, his grip turns to iron.
“Don’t forget to smile, Sara. You look too expensive to be so miserable.”
If the investors don’t believe this, the merger will fall through. If the merger falls through, the bank transfer to the clinic will stop. My mother’s chemotherapy is literally tied to how well I can fake blushing. I’m playing for her life.
During dinner, I overheard him whispering to his CFO as I sat next to him. “She’s a bargain,” he smiled, stirring his Scotch. “For the price of a few hospital bills, I got a full-time fiancée and a PR prodigy. Despair is the best negotiator.”
NAUSEA. I was not his partner. I was the solution to the sell-off. The action was supposed to end at the door of our shared luxury suite. But inside, the silence was louder than the shutters of a camera.
I found him in the kitchen at 2:00 a.m. He wasn’t the CEO then. He was just a man with shaking hands, staring at a photo of his father—the legacy he’d killed himself to save.
For a split second, the “monster” looked human, and my heart betrayed me with a sickening thud of sympathy. Then I saw it. His iPad lay open on the marble countertop. I shouldn’t have been looking, but the notification was staring at me.
An automatic calendar notification for the exact day our contract ended. The headline: “Cleanup: Terminate clinic payments at contract end..” It was scheduled for the same day as my mother’s last surgery. To him, her life was just a “cleaning up” item after the merger agreement was signed.
The unease was so tight I couldn’t swallow. A wave of HEAT surged down my neck, and my skin felt like it was on fire. My heart was pounding against my ribs, wild, desperate.
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