Emily Torres had seen hard days before—late rent, skipped meals, rejection emails—but nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to the cold terror gripping her heart in the fluorescent hell of the hospital waiting room.
Everything around her was a blur of chaos—nurses barking orders, monitors beeping in urgent rhythm, the air sterile and sharp with disinfectant. She sat hunched forward, elbows digging into her knees, eyes fixed on the swinging doors of the ICU. Her brother, Lucas, was somewhere beyond them, broken and still.
A hit-and-run had left him with internal bleeding, a fractured skull, and injuries the doctors described in clipped, clinical terms. Words like critical and unstable floated through her head like fog.
He needed surgery.
The kind of surgery insurance didn't cover fast enough.
The kind of surgery she couldn't afford.
Her phone vibrated again in her coat pocket. She almost didn't check it. She didn't have the energy for spam calls or scam texts. But something made her glance.
Unknown Number:Come to Westwood Tower. Floor 45. Now.
Her pulse jumped.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. Another message came in.
Unknown Number:If you want to save your brother, don't waste time.
Emily looked around the room, half-expecting to see a stranger in a dark coat watching her from the corner. But there was only an old man coughing, a nurse walking briskly, and a mother rocking a toddler on her lap.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know who this person was or how they knew about Lucas. But something in her gut—desperation, instinct, maybe both—told her to go.
Emily:On my way.
The elevator ascended in near silence, each floor dinging by like a countdown to something irreversible. Westwood Tower gleamed with wealth—glass, chrome, marble floors polished to a mirror finish. This was not her world.
By the time the elevator doors opened onto Floor 45, her heart was thudding against her ribs.
She stepped out into an office that looked more like an art gallery. Every detail screamed power—minimalist decor, towering windows, modern sculptures arranged with surgical precision. A cold kind of perfection.
Then she saw him.
Liam Westwood.
Billionaire. Tech mogul. Publicly brilliant, privately ruthless.
He sat behind a sleek glass desk, a man carved from marble and steel. Dark suit. Sharpened jaw. Icy eyes that flicked over her with unreadable intent.
"Miss Torres," he said, his voice low and smooth, like something expensive and aged in barrels. "Sit."
Her legs obeyed before her brain caught up.
He pushed a folder across the desk. "That's the contract."
She opened it—and froze.
Marriage.
One year.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Her mouth went dry. She looked up at him. "This... this has to be a joke."
He didn't blink. "It's not a romantic proposal. It's business."
Her hands trembled as she flipped through the pages. The terms were clear. Live with him. Appear as his wife. Follow his rules. One year, then walk away.
Why?
She didn't ask. Not yet. Maybe because she was afraid of the answer.
"Why me?" she managed, her voice brittle.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a puzzle he'd already solved. "Because you're desperate enough not to ask that until now."
Heat crawled up her neck. He was right. She was desperate.
Still, she hesitated. Her hand hovered over the pen.
Was she really about to sell herself?
For money?
No. Not for money.
For Lucas.
He needed her. And she had no other way.
Emily squared her shoulders and looked Liam dead in the eye. "Let's not kid ourselves," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "This isn't a love story. It's survival."
Then she signed.
Liam stood. "Pack your things. We marry tomorrow."
She blinked. "Just like that?"
"There's no time for hesitation," he said, already walking toward the glass doors. "Or sentiment."
She rose on shaky legs. "What happens after a year?"
"You disappear. Richer, safer, and with your brother alive."
The elevator doors closed between them moments later.
As she descended in silence, Emily gripped the cold railing, staring at her reflection in the mirrored interior.
A wife.
To a stranger.
A stranger who had power, secrets, and an agenda she couldn't begin to guess.
She didn't know it yet, but this wasn't just a deal.
It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
And Emily Torres had just signed herself into it.