The 30 days of contract

My phone buzzed on the counter. I didn’t want to look. But the screen lit up anyway. `FORECLOSURE NOTICE: 48 HOURS REMAINING` My stomach dropped. Forty-eight hours. That’s all I had before the bank took my mom’s boutique. `Carter’s Stitches.` The faded gold letters on the window. They’d been there for 20 years. Faded now. Just like everything else. I was 8 the first time Mom let me sit behind the sewing machine. My legs didn’t even reach the pedal. My hands were too small to guide the fabric straight. She just laughed and put her hands over mine. “See, baby? We make beautiful things out of scraps.” Now the scraps were all we had left. I stared at the cracked screen. $47,230. That’s how much we owed. To the bank. To the suppliers. To everyone. My savings account had $213.56. And most of that was supposed to go to groceries this week. And Mom’s medication. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the counter. The boutique was empty. Again. No customers. No sales. Just dust on the mannequins and the smell of old fabric and failure. It had been like that for months. Ever since Luxe & Co opened two blocks down in SoHo. Big windows. Marble floors. Celebrity stylists. $800 dresses that people bought just to post on i********:. Ever since Mom got sick and couldn’t stand for 8 hours anymore. Stage 3. Chemo every Tuesday. The insurance covered 60%. We paid the rest. With money we didn’t have. The bell above the door jingled. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. If I looked up, I’d cry. And I was done crying. Crying didn’t pay the rent. Crying didn’t save Mom. Crying didn’t stop the bank. “Ms. Carter?” I froze. That voice. Cold. Smooth. The kind of voice that made Wall Street interns sign NDAs without reading them. The kind of voice that lectured 200 people in a lecture hall and they all shut up and listened. The kind of voice that once whispered `I love you` against my neck at 2am in a dorm room at NYU. While the city slept outside and I was stupid enough to think we had forever. I finally looked up. Starling Hale. Black tailored suit. Probably cost more than our monthly rent. $3,000 Patek watch glinting under the fluorescent lights. Hair cut sharp. Like he owned Manhattan. Because he did. And the last text he ever sent me, 3 years ago, was still in my phone. I never deleted it. Like picking at a scab. `We’re done. Don’t contact me.` My heart did something stupid. It skipped. Then it pounded. “What are you doing here, Starling?” My voice came out steadier than I felt. Thank God for that. He didn’t answer right away. He just walked around the boutique. Slow. Running his fingers over the bolts of fabric like he was appraising them. Like my mom’s 20 years of work was inventory in a warehouse. “This place is going under,” he said finally. “Thanks for the newsflash,” I snapped. The words came out sharper than I meant. “You here to buy a dress? Or just to watch me drown?” He stopped in front of me. Up close, he still smelled like that expensive cologne. Cedar. Money. Bad decisions. The same cologne from 3 years ago. My body remembered before my brain did. “I can help you,” he said. I laughed. It came out bitter. Broken. “Right. The man who ghosted me for 3 years wants to help? What, is this charity week at Hale Enterprises?” His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked there. I used to kiss that spot. Used to fall asleep with my head on his chest. “Fifty thousand dollars.” The world went quiet. Traffic on 5th Avenue disappeared. My own breathing got loud in my ears. “Excuse me?” “$50,000. Wire transfer. Today.” He pulled a black folder from under his arm. Expensive leather. No logo. “In exchange for one month of your time.” I crossed my arms. My fingers were shaking. I tucked them under my arms so he wouldn’t see. “And what exactly do I have to do for 50k, Starling? Because last I checked, that’s not how dating works.” “Be my fiancée.” I stared at him. I actually thought I misheard him. “You’re joking.” “I’m dead serious, Jessica.” He opened the folder. Pages of legal words. Fine print. Clauses. “Board meeting in 30 days. If I show up single, my cousin Damian takes over the company. If I show up engaged, I keep it. It’s that simple.” My brain was trying to catch up. Hale Enterprises. $4 billion company. And it all came down to a ring and a photo. “So hire an actress,” I said. “There are thousands in NYC who’d do it for 5k. Put an ad on Craigslist.” “I don’t want an actress.” His gray eyes hit mine. Cold. Calculating. But I remembered when they weren’t. When they were warm. Tired. Looking at me like I was the only person in the room. “I want you. No one knows you. No one will question it. And you need the money.” He said it like it was simple math. Like I was a problem to be solved. My phone buzzed again on the counter. I didn’t want to look. But I did. `SECOND NOTICE: PAYMENT DUE IN 48 HOURS` `Carter’s Stitches will be repossessed` Below that, another text. From Mount Sinai Hospital. `Reminder: Mrs. Carter’s chemo appointment Tuesday 10am. Copay: $2,400 due.` Mom’s shop. Mom’s health insurance. The apartment we were 2 months behind on. The landlord who’d left 3 voicemails this week. I hated him. I hated that he was my only option. I hated that part of me, the 19-year-old part, still remembered how safe I felt in his NYU hoodie. How he’d bring me coffee before 8am classes. Black, two sugars. How he’d said forever like he meant it. “How do I know you won’t screw me over?” I asked. My voice was quiet now. “How do I know this isn’t some cruel joke?” “You don’t,” he said. Honest. Brutal. “But you also don’t have a choice.” He was right. And I hated him for it. I looked at the contract. $50,000. 30 days. Public appearances. Photos. Acting in love. Holding hands. Kissing if necessary. At the bottom, bolded: `No real romantic involvement. Contract terminates after 30 days. Both parties agree to no emotional attachment.` I almost laughed at that. Like you could sign a paper and turn off your heart. Like you could pretend for 30 days and walk away clean. Then at the foreclosure notice. Then at him. “Fine,” I whispered. The word tasted like defeat. Like ash. “One month. Then we’re done. Forever.” He exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. “Deal.” He slid a Mont Blanc pen across the counter. Heavy. Expensive. My hand shook as I signed `Jessica Carter` at the bottom. The ink was black. Final. The moment I dotted the ‘a’, my phone buzzed. `WIRE TRANSFER RECEIVED: $50,000.00` `FROM: HALE ENTERPRISES LLC` I stared at the screen until the numbers blurred. Fifty thousand dollars. It was real. It was in my account. For one second, relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out. I had to grip the counter. That meant Mom’s chemo next Tuesday. That meant the rent. That meant we wouldn’t lose the boutique before the month was over. That meant I could breathe. Then the shame came crashing in. Heavy. Suffocating. Because I’d just sold 30 days of my life to the man who’d broken me. To the man who left a `We’re done` text and never looked back. Never called. Never explained. My hand was still shaking. The Mont Blanc pen felt like it weighed 10 pounds. I set it down carefully. Like if I dropped it the whole deal would shatter. Like the last 3 years would shatter. “Anything else?” My voice was barely above a whisper. I couldn’t look at him. Starling was watching me. Really watching me. I could feel it. His gray eyes weren’t cold anymore. For half a second, I saw the 21-year-old who used to fall asleep with his head in my lap during finals week. Who used to trace patterns on my hand and call me his girl. Then the mask slammed back on. Cold. CEO. Stranger. “No,” he said. “30 days, Jessica. Public appearances. Photos. You act like you love me. You don’t fall in love with me.” He tapped the last clause with one finger. “That’s all.” Easy. I could do easy. I’d been doing easy for 3 years. Pretending he didn’t exist. Before I could answer, the bell above the door jingled. Loud. Too loud in the quiet shop. I didn’t see who came in. I was still staring at the contract. At my name in shaky ink. At the proof that I’d sold myself. But Starling did. And his whole body went rigid. Like someone had put a knife to his throat. His jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked. Once. Twice. A woman’s voice cut through the quiet. Sharp. Perfumed. Familiar in the worst way. “Starling? What are you doing here?” I looked up slowly. Blonde. Cream Chanel suit. Tailored to perfection. Louboutins that cost more than our monthly rent. Hair blown out like she’d just left a salon on 5th Avenue. And on her left hand, a diamond ring the size of my fist. It caught the light and threw it everywhere. Vanessa Cole. Damian’s fiancée. Socialite. Heiress. The woman the board expected Starling to marry. The woman in all the charity gala photos. Her eyes swept over me. My apron. My messy bun. The dark circles under my eyes. The contract still in my hand. Then they landed on Starling. And she smiled. Slow. Deadly. Like a cat that just found the canary. “Well,” she purred, pulling out her phone. The camera clicked. Loud in the silence. “This is going to be interesting.” Starling moved in one second. Between us. His back to me. Broad. Tense under that $10,000 suit. A shield. “Get out, Vanessa.” His voice was ice. Zero degrees. But it was too late. She’d seen it. She’d taken the picture. Proof. Evidence. And I knew, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that by tonight, `HALE ENTERPRISES CEO CAUGHT WITH MYSTERY WOMAN` would be all over every gossip blog in NYC.