The Billionaire's Secret Wife

My mother's hospital bill was $50,000. I had exactly $32.17 in my bank account. "Miss Elena, I'm sorry," the nurse said, not sounding sorry at all. "If you don't pay by tomorrow morning, we have to discharge your mother. Her condition is critical." I walked out of St. Mary's Hospital with tears blurring my vision. My cheap waitress shoes were hurting my feet. My college scholarship was gone. My mother was dying. That's when I saw it. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom parked illegally outside the hospital. A tall man in a perfect black suit was holding a small white sign. It said: "WANTED: A WIFE. $100,000 for 30 days. No intimacy required." I thought it was a sick joke. Until our eyes met. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. Tall, dark hair, sharp jawline, cold grey eyes that looked like they had never smiled in their life. He looked like a billionaire. No, he looked like a god who owned billionaires. "Are you lost?" His voice was deep and cold. "I... I saw your sign," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Is this real?" He looked me up and down. My faded waitress uniform, my worn-out sneakers, my messy ponytail. His gaze stopped on my desperate eyes. "You need money," he stated. "My mother... she needs surgery," I choked out. He pulled out a thick, expensive contract from his car. "I am Adrian Knight. My grandfather will only give me his company if I am married. I need a wife for 30 days. Be my secret wife. You get $100,000. I get my inheritance. After 30 days, we divorce. Business only." $100,000. That would save my mother. That would pay my college. He turned to page 5 and pointed. Clause 5: "Both parties shall not fall in love. This is strictly a business arrangement. Any emotional attachment will result in immediate termination and a $50,000 penalty." I should have run. This man was cold. Dangerous. The kind of man who breaks hearts for fun. But I picked up the expensive pen. "What if I fall for you?" I asked, trying to be brave. He leaned closer. His expensive cologne made my knees weak. He smirked, that cold, arrogant, dominant smirk. "Sweetheart," he whispered in my ear, "women like you always do. And I never, ever fall." I signed. Elena Rossi. Little did I know, I had just signed my heart away to New York's most cold-hearted billionaire.