❀LENA❀

He chose the corner table. The one half-hidden by the support beam where men came when they wanted privacy or were too important to sit in plain view.

I watched him settle into the chair, his movements precise. Controlled. He didn't look at the menu.

Men like him never did.

I grabbed a pot of coffee and forced my legs to move. Professional. I could do it professionally. I had been doing it for years.

"Coffee?" My voice came out steadier than I expected.

He looked up. His eyes were gray. Cold. They passed over my face like I was part of the furniture.

"Black. No sugar."

"Anything else?"

"Not yet."

I poured the coffee and walked away before my hands could shake. He didn't know me. Two years ago I'd wrapped my scarf around his bleeding hand, and now I was invisible. Just another waitress. Another nobody.

I should've felt relieved.

Instead I felt angry.

I busied myself with other tables, but I could feel him watching. Not me specifically.

Just watching the room, the people, everything with that calculating stare that probably appraised humans the same way it appraised stock portfolios.

Twenty minutes passed. He didn't touch the coffee.

Sarah nudged me at the counter. "Table nine keeps staring at you."

"He's not staring at me. He's thinking."

"About you, maybe. He's hot. Rich too, judging by that watch."

"He's a customer."

"So talk to him."

I grabbed a rag and wiped down a table that didn't need wiping.

But eventually I had to walk past him again, and that's when he spoke.

"Lena Ward."

I stopped. Turned. He was looking directly at me now, and something about the way he said my name made my skin crawl.

"How do you know my name?"

"Your name tag."

Right. The plastic badge pinned to my apron. But the way he said it felt wrong. Too familiar and very certain.

"I need to speak with you," he said. "Privately."

"I'm working."

"Take a break."

It wasn't a request.

I glanced at Sarah behind the counter. She raised her eyebrows, mouthed the word hot. I wanted to throw the rag at her.

"Five minutes," I said.

He stood. Taller than I remembered. He moved toward the back hallway without checking if I'd follow, like he knew I would. Like people always did what he wanted.

The storage room smelled like cleaning supplies and stale bread.

I closed the door and crossed my arms, putting as much distance between us as the cramped space allowed.

"I don't have long, so whatever this is…"

"I need a wife."

The words landed like a punch. I stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

"Excuse me?"

"For one year. A contractual arrangement. You need money. I need to fulfill a legal requirement." He said it the same way someone might discuss a business merger. Flat and emotionless.

"I'll pay for your mother's medical treatments in full. All of them. Plus one million dollars when the year is complete."

My brain stuttered. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real.

"Is this a joke?"

"No."

"Then you're insane."

"I'm practical." He tilted his head slightly. "Your mother needs surgery. Ongoing treatment. You're drowning in medical debt, behind on rent, working doubles just to stay afloat. I'm offering you a solution."

The room tilted. "How do you know about my mother?"

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folder. Thin. Brown. Unremarkable except for the way my entire life was probably inside it.

He held it out.

I didn't take it.

"Open it," he said.

"No."

"Lena…"

"You investigated me." My voice was shaking now. Anger, fear, something worse. "You dug into my life without permission. You looked into my mother's medical records, my finances, my.."

"Yes."

Just like that. Yes. No apology. No shame.

"You're a psychopath."

"I'm efficient." He set the folder on a shelf between boxes of napkins. "I need to marry before my thirtieth birthday to secure my inheritance. You need money to save your mother's life. This benefits us both."

"You can't just buy a person."

"I'm not buying you. I'm employing you."

The distinction made me want to scream.

"Why me?" The question came out quieter than I meant it to. "You could have anyone. Someone from your world. Someone who…”

"Someone who would have expectations," he interrupted. "Someone who would want more than I'm willing to give. You're practical. Self-sufficient. You understand transactions."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." His eyes stayed on mine. "You'll do what's necessary to protect the people you love. So will I. That makes us similar."

"We're nothing alike."

He almost smiled. Almost. "Open the folder."

I shouldn't have. I should've walked out, told him to go to hell, called the cops for stalking or harassment or whatever crime this was.

But my hand moved anyway. Reached for the folder. I opened it.

Margaret's medical records. Every diagnosis. Every treatment. Every cost.

The surgery Dr. Reyes mentioned, broken down into line items. The medication schedule. The projected expenses for the next five years.

Numbers that might as well have been infinity.

And at the bottom, a single sheet. A contract summary. Terms and conditions. One year of marriage. Complete medical coverage. One million dollar payout upon successful completion.

My throat closed.

"This could save her," I whispered.

"Yes."

I looked up at him. Really looked. Tried to find something human underneath the expensive suit and cold eyes.

There had to be something. Some reason. Some explanation that made sense.

"Why would you do this?"

"I already told you. I need…"

"No. Why this way? Why not just marry someone you actually know?"

For the first time, something flickered across his face. There and gone so fast I almost missed it.

"Because marriage isn't real for people like me. It's a contract. A means to an end. At least this way, we both know exactly what we're getting into."

"A year of pretending."

"A year of mutual benefit."

I stared at the folder in my hands. At my mother's name printed on medical forms. At the number that could save her life.

"I can't do this."

"You can."

"I don't even know you."

"You don't need to." He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just closer. "Forty-eight hours. Think about it. If you agree, call the number at the bottom of the contract. If not, I'll find someone else, and you'll go back to drowning."

The words were cruel. True, but cruel.

He moved toward the door, and I thought that was it.

Thought he'd just leave and I'd never see him again. But he paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Two years ago," he said without turning around. "After the accident. You told me to be careful."

My breath caught.

"You said that kindness was wasted on someone like me." He looked back over his shoulder. "You were probably right."

Then he was gone.

I stood in the storage room surrounded by cleaning supplies and impossible choices, holding a folder that contained my mother's life in one hand and my dignity in the other.

Forty-eight hours.

I’m doomed.