The Billionaire Doctor's Contract Bride

My company was dying and I was wearing a $49 dress to its funeral. The Grand Ballroom of Blackwood Memorial Hospital had never looked more beautiful. Crystal chandeliers, white roses, a string quartet I had booked myself three months ago. Every centerpiece, every light, every napkin fold had been done by Mitchell Events. My company. My name on the bottom of the program in tiny letters. And no one knew it was bankrupt. "Ava! The mayor is here!" Chloe Hart, my best friend and only employee, grabbed my arm. She looked stunning in borrowed blue. I looked like I was holding it together. "Of course he is. I invited him," I whispered. My phone buzzed in my clutch. Another email. Another final notice. Past Due: $42,000 - Venue Rental. Past Due: $18,500 - Florist. And the worst one, the one I had been avoiding all night. From Mount Sinai. Subject: URGENT - Billing for Patient Helen Mitchell - $78,000 due for surgery. My mother. My hands started to shake. I ducked behind a pillar to breathe. Three days. I had three days to find seventy eight thousand dollars or they would cancel my mother's heart surgery. My event company bank account had $412 in it. "Ava Mitchell?" The voice behind me was cold. Deep. The kind of voice that made interns at Blackwood run faster. I turned around. Dr. Ethan Blackwood was not supposed to be at his own family's charity gala this early. The heir to Blackwood Hospital Group was famous for two things: being the best cardiac surgeon in New York under 35, and for never smiling in photos. Tall, in a perfect black tuxedo, dark hair, gray eyes that looked at you like you were a chart he had already diagnosed. He was looking at my clipboard. "You're the planner," he said. It was not a question. "Yes. Ava Mitchell, Mitchell Events. We organized tonight. I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Dr. Blackwood." "The string quartet is playing too fast. And the roses are blocking the sightline to the donor wall. My grandfather paid for that wall to be seen." No hello. No thank you. Just criticism. I swallowed the panic and forced a professional smile. "I'll fix the quartet tempo immediately. And I'll have the centerpieces lowered by an inch." He stared at me for a second longer. "You look stressed, Ms. Mitchell. Is your company not doing well?" My blood went cold. How did he know? Before I could answer, a familiar laugh cut through the music. A laugh I used to love. Ryan Carter. My ex-fiancé. My ex-business partner. The man who had left me six months ago, taking our three biggest clients and my client list to start his own event company. His arm was around a tall blonde in a red dress. Vanessa. My former assistant. "Ava! Wow. You actually came. I thought you'd be too embarrassed after losing the Carter-Hale wedding." Ryan smirked. "Chloe told me you had to sell your office furniture." Chloe stepped forward, furious. "She did not-" I put a hand on her. My face was burning. The whole ballroom seemed to be looking now. Including Ethan Blackwood, who had not moved. He was watching the scene like a surgery. "Ryan, please. Not tonight," I said quietly. "Right. Because tonight is for successful people." He looked at Ethan and his entire face changed. "Dr. Blackwood! Ryan Carter, Carter Elite Events. We met at the Plaza launch. Big fan of what your family is doing. Maybe we could talk about next year's gala? I have much bigger resources than-" Ethan didn't even look at him. His gray eyes stayed on me. "Ms. Mitchell is under contract for all Blackwood events for the next year," Ethan said coldly. "Exclusive contract. Didn't she tell you?" I stared at him. What? Ryan's mouth opened. "Exclusive? But her company-" "Is the only company my grandfather trusted," Ethan finished. "Excuse us." He took my elbow. His hand was warm, firm. He led me away from Ryan, away from the crowd, out onto the empty terrace overlooking Central Park. The night air was cold. My eyes were suddenly full of tears I refused to shed. "Why did you do that?" I whispered. "You don't have an exclusive contract with me." "I know," he said. He let go of my arm and leaned against the stone railing. "But I hate men like him. And you looked like you needed a scalpel to cut him out of the room." I laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Thank you." For a moment, his expression softened. Just a fraction. "Your mother. Helen Mitchell. She is scheduled for valve replacement surgery at Mount Sinai next week. Dr. Chen is her doctor." I froze. "How do you know my mother's name?" "Because Dr. Chen called me for a consult this afternoon. Complicated case. He mentioned her daughter was an event planner who was struggling to pay the bill." The shame was absolute. He knew. The billionaire surgeon heir knew I couldn't pay my mother's bill. My phone buzzed again. I couldn't stop myself. I picked it up. The hospital again. FINAL NOTICE. I pressed my hands to my face. "I have three days. Three days to find seventy eight thousand dollars. My company is dead. My fiancé stole everything. And I'm standing in a dress from a sale rack at a party I planned for a billionaire who thinks my roses are too tall." The terrace was silent except for the traffic far below. Then Ethan Blackwood spoke, and his voice was no longer cold. It was business. "My grandfather, Arthur Blackwood, died two months ago. His will states I must be married and remain married for twelve months to inherit controlling shares of Blackwood Memorial Hospital Group. If I am not married in twenty one days, everything goes to my cousin Lucas Blackwood." Lucas Blackwood. I had heard of him. Party boy, lawsuits, had almost lost the hospital's license last year. "He will sell the hospital to a private equity firm. They will cut staff, cut patient care. My grandfather built that hospital to save lives, not to make profit." He turned to look at me fully. "I need a wife for twelve months. You need money. A lot of money." My heart stopped. "Are you... are you proposing something?" "I am proposing a contract," he said. "Marry me for one year. Live in my penthouse on the Upper East Side. Attend public events with me as my perfect wife. In return, I will pay your mother's full medical bill tonight. I will clear your business debt of sixty thousand dollars. And I will invest five hundred thousand dollars into Mitchell Events as a silent partner, with you as CEO." Five hundred thousand dollars. Mother's surgery paid. Debt cleared. It sounded insane. It sounded like one of those romance novels Chloe read on her lunch break. "No love," he continued, as if he could hear my thoughts. "No feelings. No physical obligation beyond what is required for the public. Just a contract. After twelve months, we divorce quietly. You keep the investment. I keep my hospital." He took a card from his inner pocket. Thick, black, only a number embossed. "You have until tomorrow at 9 AM to decide. My office. 88th floor, Blackwood Tower." He walked back inside, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and an impossible choice in the cold air. I stood on that terrace, holding his card, looking at the lights of the city that had just crushed me. A billionaire doctor wanted to marry me. Not for love. For a deal. And somewhere inside, the broken event planner who had lost everything felt something else wake up. Not fear. Fight. If he wanted a perfect wife, I would show him what a queen's strike-back looked like.