The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the hospital corridor—cold, clinical, and utterly lifeless. Emily Carter sat hunched over on the hard waiting bench, a crumpled medical report clenched in her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.
She had read the words a dozen times, hoping they'd change. But they never did.
Her mother's condition had worsened. The specialist had been brutally honest: without immediate surgery and an aggressive course of treatment, she wouldn't survive more than a few weeks.
The echo of those words followed her like a shadow: weeks… just weeks.
Tears threatened, burning behind her eyes, but Emily blinked them back. "You don't have time to break," she muttered to herself. "She needs you strong."
She had been strong for so long.....through her father's early death, through college where she juggled two jobs, through countless rejections from people who offered sympathy but never solutions. Now, life had cornered her with no way out.
Her phone buzzed, a junk email notification flashing on the screen.
She almost ignored it… until she saw the subject line.
Proposal: Marriage Agreement – Confidential Terms
Her heart stuttered. That email. The one she had dismissed as a scam. It had been sitting in her inbox for a week—a ridiculous offer that felt more like fiction than reality.
A one-year marriage. No strings. No emotions. Full legal agreement. Generous compensation.
It had sounded like something from a bad drama.
But now? Desperation made even the absurd seem logical.
With trembling fingers, Emily reopened the email. She stared at the contents, her finger hovering over "Reply." It felt wrong. But watching her mother struggle to breathe made the decision feel… necessary.
She typed just two words.
> I accept.
Moments later, her phone rang.
The voice on the other end was smooth, deep, and calm—like velvet wrapped around steel.
"You've reconsidered," he said, not as a question, but a statement.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'll do it… for the money."
A beat of silence. Then, "Good. A car will pick you up at 8 p.m. Be ready. No phones. No press. Confidentiality is non-negotiable."
Emily hesitated. "I don't even know your name."
"You will," he said. "After you sign."
And then the call ended.
Everything moved too quickly after that. By 8 p.m., she stood in front of a towering glass building in downtown London, her heart racing against her ribs. She wore the simplest white dress she owned—clean but creased from being folded too long in the closet. Her hair was pulled into a low, nervous bun, and she carried nothing but a borrowed clutch.
No family. No friends. No flowers. Just cold feet and the weight of a hundred thousand pounds on her shoulders.
Inside, the building was even colder. Sleek. Impersonal. A sharply dressed lawyer greeted her with a curt nod, not offering a smile.
"You're Emily Carter," he said. "Please follow me."
She was led into a conference room. On the table sat a thick document.
"This outlines the marriage agreement," he said in a monotone voice. "You will be legally married to Mr. Alexander Knight for one calendar year. In return, you will receive one hundred thousand pounds, paid in full upon signing. There will be no physical obligations. You are to uphold the confidentiality clause. Any breach will void the agreement and trigger legal penalties."
Emily's fingers trembled as she reached for the pen. She hesitated—her mind screaming that this was insane, reckless, humiliating.
But then her mother's face floated in her mind: frail, struggling to breathe, still trying to smile through her pain.
She signed.
Every letter felt like a surrender, but she signed anyway.
The lawyer looked up and nodded. "Congratulations, Mrs. Knight."
Emily's breath caught in her throat.
Mrs. Knight.
She didn't even know what he looked like.
As if summoned, the door opened.
A tall man stepped inside, dressed in a tailored black suit. His face was hard, sculpted, and unreadable—like a man who'd built walls so high, nothing could touch him. Piercing grey eyes met hers, studying her like a puzzle he'd already solved.
"Emily Carter," he said, his voice low and controlled.
She stood awkwardly, unsure of what to say.
"I'm Alexander Knight," he continued. "And now… you're my wife."
He didn't offer a hand. He didn't smile. He simply turned and left, the lawyer nodding for her to follow.
Within thirty minutes, she was escorted out the back exit with a plain envelope. Her phone was returned, and a car dropped her at her apartment.
She entered in a daze, dropped onto her old twin-sized mattress, and opened her banking app.
One hundred thousand pounds.
It was real.
Her hands covered her face, and this time, the tears didn't wait.
Her mother would live.
That was all that mattered.
But as the adrenaline faded and silence took over, a new thought crept into her mind like a whisper in the dark:
What exactly have I just signed up for?