I sold myself to save my mother

The hospital smelled like bleach and bad news. I sat on the plastic chair outside Room 204, my hands gripping the strap of my bag so tight my knuckles turned white. The bill in my lap said $84,320. Due in 7 days. Final notice. My mother was inside that room, sleeping. Tubes in her arm. Oxygen mask fogging up every time she breathed. The doctor had looked at me that morning with the kind of pity that made my stomach turn. "Miss Lopez, without the surgery, she has maybe two months." Two months. And I had $217 in my account. I worked double shifts at the diner. I cleaned offices at night. I sold my laptop, my necklace, even the little gold bracelet my father gave me before he left. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. My phone buzzed. _Unknown Number: Are you Maya Lopez?_ I almost ignored it. Then it buzzed again. _Unknown Number: I have a proposition. Meet me at Blackwood Tower. 8 PM. Don’t be late._ I stared at the screen. Blackwood Tower. Everyone in the city knew that name. Damien Blackwood. 32. CEO. Billionaire. And according to the tabloids, a man who destroyed people for fun. I shouldn’t have gone. But at 7:58 PM, I was standing in the lobby, wearing my only good dress — the black one from my cousin’s wedding two years ago, now a little tight at the waist. My shoes were scuffed. My hair was in a messy bun because I didn’t have money for a salon. The elevator opened to the 60th floor. He was standing by the window, back to me, hands in his pockets. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark suit that probably cost more than my mother’s surgery. "You're late," he said, without turning. "It’s 7:59," I said, my voice shaking. He turned then. And God — the photos didn’t do him justice. Sharp jaw. Cold gray eyes. The kind of face that made women stupid. He looked me up and down, slow, like he was assessing damage. "Sit." I sat. The leather chair was cold. "Your mother needs surgery. Eighty-four thousand. You don’t have it," he said. No question. Just facts. I swallowed. "How do you know—" "I know everything about you, Maya Lopez. I know you work at Joe’s Diner. I know you dropped out of college to take care of her. I know you’re desperate." The word hit me like a slap. Desperate. Yes. I was. "Get to the point," I said, trying to sound brave. He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. "Marry me." I blinked. "What?" "One year. Contract marriage. You’ll be my wife in public. You’ll live in my house. You’ll follow my rules. In return, I pay for your mother’s surgery. All of it. Plus, I’ll give you $10,000 a month." I laughed. It came out broken. "You’re insane." "Maybe," he said, walking closer. He stopped right in front of my chair, looking down at me. "But you’re out of options." He was right. And he knew it. "Why me?" I whispered. "You can have any woman—" "Because you need money. And I need a wife. Not a lover. Not someone who’ll fall in love with me. Someone who’ll follow the contract and leave when it’s over." He placed a folder on the table. The contract. Thick. Full of clauses. Rule 1: No touching without permission. Rule 2: No questions about my past. Rule 3: Do not fall in love with me. I stared at Rule 3 for a long time. "What if I say no?" I asked. He shrugged. "Then your mother dies." The words were cruel. But his eyes were empty when he said it, like he was stating the weather. I thought of my mother’s hand in mine that morning. How thin she felt. How she smiled and said, "Don’t worry about me, maya. I’m fine." She wasn’t fine. I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so bad I almost dropped it. "Sign it," he said, soft now. Almost gentle. And I did. I, Maya Lopez, sold myself to Damien Blackwood for $84,320. The ink was still wet when he said, "Welcome to the family, wife."