SOLD TO THE BILLIONAIRE: Sofia’s 30-day contract

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and bad news. I stood outside Room 312, staring at the bill in my hands. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely read the numbers, but the numbers didn't matter. I knew what it meant. $75,000. Due in seven days. Or they stop my mother's treatment. "Mrs. Evans, your mother needs the surgery. Without it..." The doctor didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. My mother was all I had. My father left when I was twelve. Since then, it had been just the two of us in a tiny apartment in Queens, sharing one bedroom, one dream: that I would go to college and we would finally have a better life. That dream died the day she collapsed in our kitchen. "Sofia?" I turned. A man in a black suit stood behind me. He was tall, expressionless, holding a leather folder. "Are you Sofia Evans?" "Who are you?" "My name is James. I work for Mr. Alexander Knight. He would like to meet you." I frowned. "I don't know any Alexander Knight." "You will. He can solve your problem." His eyes dropped to the bill in my hand. "All of your problems." My first instinct was to say no. Stranger danger. But the bill in my hand felt heavier than my pride. $75,000. Where would I get $75,000 in seven days? "What does he want?" I asked. "Thirty days of your time. That's all. He will explain everything. A car is waiting downstairs." I should have said no. Any smart girl would have. But I wasn't a smart girl in that moment. I was a desperate daughter. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a black Maybach, my old sneakers looking ridiculous against the expensive leather seats. The car stopped in front of a skyscraper that touched the clouds. Knight Tower. James led me to the 58th floor. The elevator opened directly into an office that was bigger than my entire apartment building. And there he was. Alexander Knight. I had seen his face on magazine covers. The youngest billionaire in New York. Thirty-two, cold, ruthless, famous for never smiling. In person, he was worse. Or better. I couldn't decide. He was standing by the window, his back to me, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. When he turned, his eyes were grey like a winter storm. "Sofia Evans. Twenty-four. Waitress at Luna Cafe. Your mother, Maria Evans, needs a heart surgery. You have $312 in your bank account." My mouth went dry. "How do you know that?" "I know everything I need to know." He walked towards me, each step slow and deliberate. "I have a proposal for you." He slid a thick document across his glass desk. I picked it up. The first page said: CONTRACT MARRIAGE AGREEMENT - 30 DAYS. My heart stopped. "What is this?" "My grandmother is dying," he said, his voice flat. "Her last wish is to see me married. She has a heart condition. The doctor says she has less than two months. I need a wife for thirty days. Someone to convince her that I have settled down, so she can die in peace." "And you want me to be your... fake wife?" "Exactly. For thirty days, you will live in my penthouse. You will accompany me to dinners, family events. You will act like you love me. In return, I will pay for your mother's surgery, clear all your debts, and give you $100,000 when the contract ends." $100,000. I couldn't breathe. That was more money than I had ever seen in my life. "What are the rules?" I whispered. He leaned closer. I could smell his cologne - expensive, woodsy, dangerous. "Rule one: No one can know it's fake. Not my grandmother, not my family, not the media. Rule two: You do what I say, when I say it, in public. Rule three..." His eyes dropped to my lips for a second. "You don't fall in love with me." I let out a nervous laugh. "That won't be a problem. I don't even like you." A small smile touched his lips for the first time. It was terrifying and beautiful. "Good. Because I don't do love, Sofia. I do contracts." He picked up a black pen and held it out to me. "So? Will you sell me thirty days of your life to save your mother's?" I looked at the bill still crumpled in my pocket. I thought of my mother in that hospital bed, her face pale, her hand cold in mine. I took the pen. My hand was shaking as I signed my name on the last page: Sofia Evans. The moment the ink dried, Alexander took the contract and looked at me with an intensity that made my knees weak. "Welcome to my life, Mrs. Knight. For the next thirty days, you are mine