The hospital smelled of antiseptic, metal, and despair.
Amara Khan sat on the cold bench outside the billing office, staring at the piece of paper in her trembling hands. The numbers on the page glared back at her—an amount so huge, so merciless, it felt like a cruel joke.
$45,000.
Her brother's surgery. His only chance at survival.
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back. Crying wouldn't solve anything. Crying wouldn't pay bills. She had already sold her mother's gold bangles, pawned her old textbooks, and borrowed from neighbors who barely trusted her to repay.
But this number was… impossible.
Her brother, Ayaan, only fifteen, lay in the ward behind her. His pale face haunted her every time she closed her eyes. He had been strong for her, smiling weakly, whispering, "Don't worry, sis. I'll be fine."
But she knew better. If the surgery didn't happen soon, she would lose him.
Her chest tightened painfully at the thought.
"Miss Khan."
The deep voice made her jump. She looked up sharply, clutching the bill like a lifeline.
A tall man stood in front of her, his presence commanding the entire hallway. He wore a tailored black suit that looked more expensive than the hospital's monthly budget, and his tie was knotted with precision. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw sharp, and his eyes—those eyes were the kind that could freeze fire.
Amara had seen that face before. On magazine covers. In business articles. On the city's tallest billboard that loomed over the central square.
Adrian Blackwell.
The CEO of Blackwell Enterprises. Billionaire. Untouchable. Dangerous.
Her breath caught in her throat. What was he doing here?
"Mr… Mr. Blackwell?" she stammered, unsure if she should stand or kneel or disappear into the floor.
He studied her calmly, his expression unreadable. "You know me."
"Who doesn't?" she muttered under her breath.
One of his brows arched slightly, as though amused. But his voice was cold, clipped, every word precise. "I was here visiting a business associate. Then I saw you. You look… desperate."
Her cheeks burned. "Excuse me?"
"You're holding a bill you can't pay," he said bluntly, nodding toward the crumpled paper in her hands. "Your eyes are swollen from crying. And that thin jacket—you're clearly cutting corners on yourself to save money for someone else."
Amara's fingers curled tighter around the bill. How dare he read her like that? How dare he see through her so easily?
Still, his words were knives of truth.
"I don't see how that's any of your business," she snapped, trying to muster dignity she didn't feel.
Adrian's lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper. "It could be."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
He stepped closer. Too close. The scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, intoxicating—wrapped around her. His height cast a shadow over her, making her feel smaller than she already did.
"I need something," he said. "And you need money. We can help each other."
Amara's stomach dropped. The way he said it… it sounded wrong. Dangerous.
"I'm not for sale," she shot back, her voice tight.
A faint glimmer of amusement flickered in his dark eyes. "I'm not asking you to be."
"Then what—"
"Marriage."
The word slammed into her like a thunderclap.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Surely she had misheard. "What… what did you just say?"
Adrian's expression didn't change. He said it as casually as one might order coffee. "I need a wife. A temporary one. And you'll do."
Her jaw dropped. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." His gaze never wavered. "But I'm also serious."
Amara's lips parted in disbelief, but the word marriage barely registered.
Because before she could even argue, her mind slipped backward—into the life that had brought her here.
She had not always been this desperate.
Years ago, Amara's world had been simple. Her father ran a small repair shop on the edge of town, fixing old radios and battered scooters while her mother managed the household. It wasn't much, but their home was warm with laughter, her brother Ayaan's mischievous pranks, and the smell of her mother's cooking.
But life had a cruel way of cutting happiness short.
First, their mother fell sick—an illness that drained both her body and the family's savings. Amara remembered the nights she stayed up studying by candlelight, the soft coughs echoing from her mother's room, the trembling hands that reached out to reassure her: "You'll be strong for your brother, won't you?"
Her mother never lived long enough to see her promise kept.
Then, just a year later, her father collapsed while working in the shop. A heart attack, sudden and merciless. He left behind debts Amara hadn't even known about—loans, unpaid bills, medical expenses.
And suddenly, at just nineteen, Amara became the only pillar left standing.
She dropped out of university before the first semester ended. Dreams of becoming a teacher, of wearing pressed white shirts and explaining literature to classrooms full of curious students, were locked away.
Instead, she took any job that would pay: waiting tables, cleaning apartments, tutoring spoiled rich kids whose mothers looked down on her patched shoes. Each paycheck went toward rent, food, and keeping Ayaan in school.
But fate wasn't done testing her.
Ayaan's health began to falter months ago. The doctors said it was a congenital condition—a flaw in his heart that had been there all along, waiting to reveal itself. Surgery was the only solution. Surgery that cost more than Amara could ever scrape together.
She remembered the night she found out. Ayaan had smiled weakly at her from his hospital bed, pretending he was fine. But when the doctor handed her the estimate, her legs nearly gave out. She had stood in the hospital corridor, numb, clutching a piece of paper that spelled out her brother's life in numbers she could never reach.
Now here she was, still clutching another piece of paper—another bill—and staring at the stranger who dared to toss the word marriage at her as if it were nothing more than a coin across a counter.
Her throat tightened. She wasn't just desperate. She was cornered. Life had stripped her of choices long ago.
But marriage? To Adrian Blackwell of all people?
She stole another glance at him. Everyone in the city knew who he was. The ruthless CEO. The man who had turned a crumbling family business into an empire, crushing competitors with a flick of his pen. The man whose icy demeanor made women swoon from afar but flinch up close.
Why her?
Of all the women he could have, why her?
Amara clutched her brother's bill tighter, her heart pounding in her ears. She wanted to scream at Adrian, to tell him he was insane, to walk away.
But the thought of Ayaan—his pale skin, his weakening breath—held her in place.
If she said no, she lost him.
If she said yes… she lost herself.
Her eyes burned.
And Adrian Blackwell, with his unreadable gaze and voice like stone, was still waiting for her answer.
Amara's pulse thundered in her ears. Marriage. It was absurd. Outrageous. Impossible.
She opened her mouth to protest, but Adrian's gaze pinned her in place. Cold. Patient. Calculating.
"You're wondering why," he said flatly, as though reading her thoughts.
"Of course I'm wondering why!" Amara burst out. "You're a billionaire. You could marry anyone. Models, actresses—women who'd throw themselves at your feet for free. Why me?"
Adrian didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks as though the conversation were nothing more than a business negotiation. "Because I don't need love, Miss Khan. I need convenience. Obedience. And a woman with nothing to lose rarely makes trouble."
Her cheeks burned hot with humiliation. "So I'm… convenient?"
His lips curved faintly—not a smile, but something colder. "Exactly."
She swallowed, her pride stinging. But the question still gnawed at her. "Why do you need a wife at all? What kind of game are you playing?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. For the first time, something flickered across his face—a shadow, quickly buried.
"My grandmother," he said at last, his tone clipped. "She's the only family I have left. And she's dying."
Amara blinked, startled.
"She has one wish before she passes." His eyes darkened, unreadable. "She wants to see me married. Settled. Not the ruthless CEO, not the businessman—but a grandson who has a home."
He said the word home like it was foreign on his tongue.
Amara's throat tightened.
"You can't fake that with one of your supermodel girlfriends?" she muttered bitterly.
"I don't have girlfriends," he said, his voice turning sharper. "I have enemies. Rivals. Opportunists. Every woman who approaches me wants something—status, money, power. I need someone who doesn't."
"And you think that's me?"
His gaze cut into hers. "Yes. You don't want power. You don't want fame. You want money—but not for yourself. For your brother."
Her stomach twisted. How much had he seen? How much did he know?
"You've been followed," Adrian added casually, as though discussing the weather. "My people checked into your background before I approached you. You work three jobs, pay rent on time, and your bank account is nearly empty every month. You've pawned jewelry, borrowed from neighbors, and still you stay afloat. All for him."
Amara's breath hitched. Heat rose to her face—not from shame, but from the violation of it. He had looked into her life like it was an open file.
"You had me investigated," she whispered, horrified.
"I don't do business blind," Adrian replied coolly.
"This isn't business," she snapped.
"It is to me." His voice dropped lower, harder. "One year of your life. Play the part. Convince my grandmother. After that, you walk away rich, and I walk away free. Simple."
Simple.
The word rattled around in her head, mocking her.
There was nothing simple about binding herself to this man. Nothing simple about pretending to be his wife. Nothing simple about selling her future to save her brother's life.
But what choice did she have?
Her fists trembled in her lap. "And if I refuse?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed, his tone flat as ice. "Then your brother dies. And you'll still drown in debt. But if you accept…" He leaned forward, his presence overwhelming, his voice a low promise. "He lives. You both live. And all it costs is one year."
Amara's heart twisted painfully. His words dug into the deepest wound she carried—the fear of losing Ayaan.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to scream no. She wanted to slap the arrogance off his face.
But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was her brother's pale smile, his fragile heartbeat on the monitor.
And the envelope of salvation in her hands.
Amara's fingers tightened around the envelope until her knuckles turned white. The weight of it felt poisonous, like holding a snake that promised salvation with one bite.
One year.
One year of pretending to be this man's wife. Of living under his roof. Of smiling for cameras and deceiving his grandmother.
Could she do it?
Her pride screamed no. She had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to hand herself over like a bargaining chip. She wasn't a commodity to be bought and sold.
But her heart whispered yes. Because Ayaan's life wasn't negotiable. Because time was running out.
"Why me?" she asked again, her voice raw, desperate. "You say I'm convenient, obedient—but you don't know me. What if I ruin your perfect little plan?"
Adrian's gaze held hers, steady, merciless. "You won't. Because you can't afford to."
The words landed like a slap.
Amara swallowed hard, her chest aching.
"You're cruel," she whispered.
He tilted his head slightly. "I'm honest."
The corridor seemed to close in on her, the sterile walls pressing tight around her chest. The steady hum of machines, the faint cries from other rooms, the smell of antiseptic—it all blurred into a suffocating fog.
Her brother's face floated before her eyes. Thin. Pale. Fighting to smile so she wouldn't cry.
Don't worry about me, sis.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Tears burned, but she forced them back. She couldn't break here—not in front of Adrian Blackwell.
She stood abruptly, forcing steel into her shaking spine. "I need time to think."
"You don't have time." His voice followed her like a shadow. Calm. Certain. "Every second you waste, your brother's heart grows weaker. Think all you want, Miss Khan. But you already know your answer."
Her breath hitched. She hated him. She hated his cold arrogance, his confidence that she would bend.
But worst of all, she hated that he was right.
Her legs carried her to the ward door, her hand hovering over the handle. She didn't look back at him. She couldn't.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "If I do this… if I agree… you swear he'll get the surgery? Immediately?"
Behind her, Adrian's reply was a blade of certainty. "The moment you sign."
Her heart shattered.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal of the door, eyes squeezed shut. She could almost hear the chains clicking shut around her neck.
And then—
The door burst open.
"Amara!" A nurse rushed out, panic flashing across her face. "Your brother—his heart rate is dropping!"
The world tilted. The bill slipped from Amara's fingers. Her knees went weak, but she forced herself forward, stumbling into the room.
Machines blared in shrill alarm. Ayaan lay on the bed, his skin ghostly, his chest rising shallowly under the oxygen mask. Doctors and nurses crowded around, barking orders.
"BP crashing—get the crash cart—"
Amara's breath strangled in her throat. "Ayaan!" she cried, shoving forward, but a nurse blocked her path.
"Please, miss, you need to wait outside!"
"No!" she screamed, thrashing against the hands holding her back. "He's my brother! Let me stay—Ayaan!"
Tears blurred everything, but she saw Adrian in the doorway, tall and unmoving, his sharp gaze fixed on the scene. Not panicked, not distraught—calculating. Watching. Waiting.
Her heart twisted into shards.
Because she knew, in that moment, that the only way to save Ayaan was to surrender to Adrian Blackwell's deal.
Her lips trembled as she whispered into the chaos, almost to herself. "I'll do it…"
The machines wailed louder.
And Adrian's eyes, cold and victorious, didn't leave hers.