The first time I saw my husband, he was signing divorce papers.
I stood at the doorway of the private hospital room, my fingers clenched around a brown envelope that carried my entire future. The air smelled of antiseptic and cold money rich people's money. The kind that decides your life without asking your name.
"Put it there," he said without looking up.
His voice was calm. Too calm for a man about to end a marriage.
"I'm not here for that," I replied, surprised my voice didn't shake.
That was when he finally looked at me.
Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. The kind of face magazines fight over. The kind that never belonged to someone like me. Recognition flickered across his face slow, unreadable before it vanished.
"You're late," he said.
I laughed softly. "You married the wrong woman. I think that makes you late."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and dangerous.
Outside this room, my mother was fighting for her life. Inside it, this man held the only signature that could save her. A contract marriage. Six months. No love. No questions.
I had promised myself I would never beg.
But as he leaned back in his chair, eyes cold and calculating, I realized something terrifying.
He hadn't married me by mistake.
He had been waiting for me.