The hospital smelled like disinfectant and despair.
I had been sitting on the plastic chair outside the ICU for hours, staring at the same crack on the white floor, as if it might open and swallow me whole. My phone lay silent in my hand—no missed calls, no miracles.
A nurse finally stopped in front of me.
"Miss Moore," she said gently, "billing needs confirmation. If the payment isn't arranged by tomorrow evening, we won't be able to continue your father's treatment."
My chest tightened. "How much?" I asked, even though I already knew.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
The number crushed the air from my lungs.
I nodded, afraid that if I spoke, I would break. The nurse offered a look of sympathy and walked away, leaving me alone with a debt I could never repay.
Behind the glass walls, my father lay unconscious, machines breathing for him. He had spent his life working himself to exhaustion so I could have a future.
And now, I couldn't even buy him time.
Banks had rejected me.
Relatives had stopped answering.
Every door had closed.
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
That was when a shadow fell across the floor.
I looked up—and froze.
The man standing before me did not belong in a public hospital. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. Everything about him radiated control.
His face was sharply handsome, his dark eyes cold and observant, as if he were calculating something far more valuable than money.
"Miss Elara Moore," he said.
"Yes?" My voice wavered.
"My name is Alexander Blackwood."
Something about the way he spoke his name made it feel important—final.
"I understand you need two hundred and fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow," he continued calmly.
My pulse spiked. "How do you know that?"
"I know many things." His gaze didn't soften. "Sit."
It wasn't a request.
Uneasy, I sat back down. He took the seat across from me, crossing his legs as if this were a boardroom meeting instead of the worst day of my life.
"I don't waste time," he said. "You can't get the money. Your income is insufficient, and no institution will approve a loan this fast."
"That's none of your business," I snapped.
"It becomes my business if you want a solution."
My breath hitched.
He placed a slim folder on the table between us.
"I will cover your father's treatment in full," he said. "Every bill. No limits."
My hands began to shake. "Why?"
A faint, emotionless smile touched his lips. "Nothing is free."
I opened the folder with trembling fingers.
"I will pay," he said evenly, "and in return, you will marry me."
The words rang in my ears.
"I'm sorry—what?"
"A legal marriage. One year," he clarified. "You will live with me, act as my wife in public, and follow the contract."
I stood abruptly. "You're insane."
"Sit down, Elara."
My name on his lips felt dangerous.
"You can walk away," he continued calmly. "But then you should prepare yourself. Without that money, your father won't survive."
Tears burned my eyes.
"You're blackmailing me."
"No," he said. "I'm negotiating."
I looked back at the contract.
One-year marriage.
No emotional obligations.
Public appearances as required.
Strict confidentiality.
Then I saw the clause.
No physical relationship is required unless mutually agreed.
I looked up in disbelief. "You don't even want… that?"
"This marriage is not about desire," Alexander replied.
"Then why me?" My voice cracked.
He studied me for a moment, his gaze unreadable.
"Because I need a wife," he said. "And you need money."
My throat tightened. "What happens after one year?"
"We divorce," he answered simply. "You leave debt-free."
"And what do you get?"
"That," he said coolly, "is not your concern."
I turned to the final page—and froze.
No divorce permitted before twelve months, under any circumstances.
My heart pounded.
"You're trapping me."
He stood, straightening his cufflinks.
"I'm saving your father," he said. "What you call it doesn't change the outcome."
He paused, then added, "If you agree, sign tomorrow morning."
And with that, Alexander Blackwood walked away—
leaving a contract on the table and my future hanging by a signature.