EMILY.

My leg had healed, but the pain in my chest hadn't. From heartbreak to Dad's life support, everything felt like a blur—like I was trapped in a fog of anxiety I couldn't shake. Still, I kept working. I had to. His bills were mounting, and if I could pay them, Olivia wouldn't dare shut off his machines.

I exhaled sharply, my chest tight.

"Table three needs to be cleared, Emily! Don't just stand there!" Joanne's voice cut through the noise of the café, shrill and jarring.

I flinched, my hand trembling. The espresso I was pouring spilled over the counter in a dark, bitter stream.

"Shit, Emily! This is the second time this week!" she snapped. She ran a hand through her frizzy hair, frustration darkening her face. But for a fleeting second, pity flickered in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, grabbing a rag, cheeks burning. I wiped the mess quickly, then returned to the machine, trying to keep it together.

When the clock hit 4 PM, I grabbed my bag and rushed across town to a restaurant. I had a meeting with an agent.

Inside the bustling restaurant, I scanned the faces, searching for a young man in a dark suit.

Suddenly, my gaze landed on a man waving at me from a table set apart from the main dining area. His suit was dark, his hair brown—check, check.

I rubbed my clammy palms together before approaching him, my anxiety spiking. I'd found him online. He'd claimed to be an agent from an entertainment company in need of an actress. I'd sent my resume, and he'd approved our meeting.

Everything about his online profile felt off. His profile picture was a blurry headshot that seemed more suited for a business card than an agent, and his bio read like a bad sales pitch. And the entertainment company he mentioned? I'd Googled it, and there was no sign of it.

At first, I'd been wary, thinking it was a scam. But the thought of Dad's growing medical bills had pushed me. I had to take a chance, one way or another. Especially since he'd mentioned a good pay if I qualified.

"Hi, I'm Emily Carlson," I greeted, reaching his table.

He stood, offering a smile. "James Hunk."

I took his extended hand, shaking it briefly, before we sat across from each other.

Without hesitation, he spoke, his tone professional, as if he'd repeated these lines countless times. "I'm an agent at Ink Entertainment company."

I politely, but firmly, countered, "Yeah, but I couldn't find it on Google."

"Ah," he waved a dismissive hand. "Google doesn't catch up with what we do."

What we do? My instincts tensed. Was this even legal?

He added swiftly, "But it's great to see you. I've seen your resume—you have great acting skills. And... your hair." His eyes lingered on my head.

I tucked loose strands behind my ear, embarrassed. It was a mess after work.

He reached into his bag and slid a document and pen across the table. "Before we go further, I need you to sign this NDA."

"Why?" I blurted, my voice edged with alarm.

He arched a brow.

I quickly softened. "I mean… it’s an acting job. Why would I need to sign a non-disclosure agreement?"

"It’s standard. Project confidentiality," he said coolly.

I nodded slowly, but unease crawled up my spine. What kind of project needs secrecy before even explaining the job?

"Are you alright, Miss Emily?" he asked, noticing my pale face.

I straightened. "Yes, I’m fine."

"If you're uncomfortable, you're free to decline."

I shook my head. "No. I really need this."

My fingers curled around the pen. I hesitated. Then I signed—barely registering the dense legal text. Dad's face swam in my mind. The tubes. The machines. I couldn’t afford to walk away.

Once done, I looked up. "Can you tell me more about the job? What kind of roles would I be playing? And your commission rates?"

"You’d be playing the lead. A billionaire’s bride. It pays a seven-figure sum."

His words—seven figures—emphasized the amount.

My eyes widened, and my breath hitched.

A thousand dollars was four figures. Seven figures would be a million! That was more than enough for Dad's medical bills.

"Seven?" I asked, hoping I hadn't misheard.

"Right, a seven-figure sum," James confirmed, nodding. "But it’s not a traditional role. No cameras, no sets. You’ll be acting in real life."

I stared at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You’ll marry my client. In reality. But it’s just for show—a transaction between you two. Think… a contractual marriage."

I went still.

"This… this isn’t acting," I said. "This has nothing to do with my resume." To think I had come all this way from my menial jobs with a flicker of hope.

James calmly replied, "As I said, if you're not interested, you're free to leave."

The word ‘leave’ caught in my throat. How could I leave when I needed the money so desperately?

"It's just a contractual marriage, right?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Nothing else?"

"Yes," he said. "Nothing more. Just a role you play in the public eye."

I bit my lip. "But why would anyone want a fake marriage? It doesn't feel right."

"People have reasons. Business. Image. Privacy. My client wants a bride on paper, not a partner in reality."

He leaned back. "So, Miss Emily. Are you in or out?"

I stared down at the table. My signature on the NDA stared back at me, binding me. If I walked away, Dad might not survive the week. But if I stayed…

What was I really stepping into?

I took a deep breath, the decision heavy in my chest.

"I'm still interested," I said, my voice barely audible.

His smile widened. "Good. I’ll send you the interview schedule soon."

I nodded, heart heavy, chest tight. As he gathered his things, one question echoed louder than the rest:

What kind of man needs to buy a bride?