THE BILLIONAIRE'S TEMPORARY WIFE

‎The bill had been folded so many times that the creases were soft, almost cloth-like. Emma kept it in her left coat pocket — not her bag, not her wallet — because she needed to feel it there. That compressed square of paper evidence. ‎ ‎This is real. This is what you're struggling to achieved. "Four thousand two hundred and seventeen dollars." ‎ ‎She'd counted the number the same way she'd been counting the fourteen dollars in her purse. Obsessively. Uselessly. The way you recount things that never change. ‎ ‎St. Catherine's smelled of antiseptic and recycled air in the lobby. A small boy in a red coat playing with a toy car along the edge of a plastic chair, lips buzzing engine sounds. ‎ ‎Emma watched him for exactly three seconds before she made herself look away. Wanting small things was a luxury she'd stopped affording herself around the time her father's name first appeared in a court filing. ‎ ‎The billing clerk had the stillness of someone who had delivered bad news so many times it had stopped feeling like news. ‎"The payment arrangement requires a minimum of eight hundred dollars," she said. ‎ ‎"By last Friday." ‎"Is there another option?" ‎"Financial assistance processing takes six weeks. Your mother's condition is non-emergency at present, which means…" ‎ ‎"I understand what it means." Emma's voice didn't shake. She had practiced not shaking. ‎ ‎"By the end of the month I will have it." ‎ ‎She turned before the woman could answer. ‎ ‎Room 412 was at the east corridor end. Emma had trek it so many times in eleven weeks that she could have done it blind: past the nurses' station, past the family lounge with the television nobody was watching. ‎ ‎Her mother was awake, rest against a pillow with a library paperback open in her lap. Gardens, the cover said. Grace Carter had always believed in tending things. ‎ ‎"You're hovering," her mother said without looking up... ‎ ‎Emma sat on the wobbly leg chair. ‎"How are you feeling?" ‎"Like a woman who has answered that question seventeen times today. Sit properly. You look like you're about to run." ‎ ‎Emma sat properly. ‎ ‎Her mother set down the book. The same dark eyes, the same direct gaze — worn soft by years, like the same material after long use. She looked at Emma with the patient attention of someone who had already decided to wait as long as it took for the truth. ‎ ‎"Emma." ‎"I'm sorting it." ‎"Your father used to say that." ‎ ‎The monitor beeped. A door opened and closed at the corridor. ‎ ‎"I'm not him." ‎"I know you're not." Her mother's hand covered Emma's. Cool and dry. The first home Emma had ever known, held in a palm. ‎ ‎"I'm asking that's why." ‎ ‎Emma looked at the window. Gray sky. Parking lot below. An ordinary Wednesday pretending nothing was wrong. ‎ ‎"Fourteen dollars," she said, almost to herself. "That's what I have. Rent is due next week. They wanted eight hundred by last Friday." She stopped. Drew breath. "I'm tired of the math, Mama." ‎ ‎Her mother said nothing. She just held on. ‎ ‎Emma left at four-thirty. The cold hit her like a correction outside. ‎ ‎A black car parked directly across from the hospital entrance, engine running, exhaust threading into the November air. ‎ ‎She noticed the car while waiting for bus. She'd seen it when she arrived two hours ago. ‎It hadn't moved. ‎She looked away. ‎The bus came. She got on. ‎ ‎Her phone buzzed at the next stop. Unknown number. She let it ring. ‎ ‎At the stop after that, a voicemail appeared. She pressed play. ‎ ‎"Miss Carter. My name is James Harlow. I represent the Blackwood Group. Mr. Ethan Blackwood would like to meet with you regarding a matter of mutual interest." ‎ ‎Emma took the phone from her ear and stared at it. ‎Ethan Blackwood. The tower in Midtown that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. ‎ ‎The man whose face appeared on magazine covers with the same expression every time — the expression of someone who had privately decided to feel nothing and was maintaining it extremely well. ‎ ‎She had no connection to his world. No logical reason to be on his radar. ‎ ‎Mutual interest. ‎ ‎She thought about fourteen dollars. About four thousand, two hundred and seventeen. About her mother's hand, cool and dry and holding on. ‎ ‎She got off two stop early, stood on the cold sidewalk, and called back. ‎ ‎The envelope arrived at seven forty-five the next morning. Her full name on the front — Emma Renee Carter — as it appeared on exactly two documents: her birth certificate and her passport. ‎ ‎There were three things inside: a twelve-page contract, a six-figure cheque, and a plain white card. ‎One year. ‎No feelings. ‎Walk away richer. ‎ ‎She read the contract twice. ‎Then she sat for a long time, looking at the water ring on the table and the grocery list still pinned to the wall. ‎ ‎Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. This time she picked up immediately. ‎ ‎A voice like winter stone — ‎"You have twenty-four hours, Miss Carter." ‎