Contract to Forget

They say people in a coma can't hear anything. That's a lie. I know because I used to talk to them every day during my ICU shift. And now, at 2 AM, I was about to become engaged to one of them. "Just sign here, Miss Duarte," the lawyer said, pushing the contract toward me. His office smelled like old coffee and air conditioning. I read the first clause again, my hand shaking. TEMPORARY ENGAGEMENT CONTRACT – 30 DAYS. Value: $40,000. Forty thousand. It was exactly what I needed for my mother's heart surgery. Not a dollar more, not less. "What if he doesn't wake up?" I asked. "Even better. Less complication," he replied coldly. My name is Marina Duarte, I'm 26, I'm a public hospital nurse in São Paulo, and I just sold my next 30 days. His name is Theo Alencar. 32. CEO of Alencar Group. He's been in a coma for two weeks since his car flipped on the highway. His real fiancée, a model, ran away when she saw the photos of him intubated. His mother, Helena, needs a fiancée to show the press and the board, or the stocks will crash. And I vaguely look like the model. Same height, same brown hair. Except I have dark circles from 12-hour shifts and she has botox. "Why me?" I asked. Helena, who had been silent in the corner, finally spoke. She had the same hard jaw as her son in the photos. "Because yesterday in the ICU you talked to him for twenty minutes without knowing who he was. The head nurse told me. You held his hand and told him about your mother. My son moved his finger. For the first time in two weeks." My heart stopped. I remembered. Room 404. I had finished my shift and stopped to check if he was comfortable. I talked nonsense about my mom hiding my slipper again because of her Alzheimer's. He moved his finger? I hadn't noticed. "I need the money today," I said, swallowing my pride. "My mother's hospital gave me until Friday to confirm the surgery." "Sign and the money drops in one hour," the lawyer said. I grabbed the pen. My hand was sweating. I thought of my mother, Celia, singing off-key in the kitchen before the disease stole her memory. I thought of the late rent. I signed. Marina Duarte. In that second, I became the fake fiancée of a sleeping man. Helena took me to his penthouse in Jardins that same night. It looked more like an expensive hotel. Everything gray, everything expensive, everything lifeless. "You will live here for 30 days. You will visit him every day at the hospital as a devoted fiancée. You will cry for photographers if needed. Rule number one: no one can know about the contract. Rule number two: do not fall in love. He already has a life." "Don't worry, ma'am. I don't even fall in love with people who are awake," I tried to joke, but my voice came out weak. She left me in the guest room. I couldn't sleep. At 6 AM, I put my nurse coat over my clothes and went to the hospital, to room 404. He was there. So different from the suited photos on Google. Pale, with a cut on his forehead, breathing with machines. Handsome in a sad way. I closed the door, sat in the chair beside the bed and, out of habit, held his hand. It was warm. "Hi, Theo," I whispered. "It's me again. The chatty nurse. So... looks like I'm your fiancée now. I'm sorry, it was for the money. My mom needs surgery and I... I had no other choice." The monitor beeped in a calm rhythm. I kept talking because the silence was too heavy. "Look, let's make a deal. I'll fake it well, I promise. I'll bring flowers, I'll hold your hand for the photos. But when you wake up, we break up nicely and blame it on the accident trauma, okay? No hard feelings." I was about to stand when I felt it. A squeeze. Weak, but it was a squeeze on my hand. I froze. I looked at his fingers around mine. "Theo?" My heart was beating so loud I thought the machines would alarm. His eyes stayed closed. Nothing. Maybe I imagined it from exhaustion. But then, in a hoarse, broken voice, almost a breath, he spoke without opening his eyes: "You came back." I jumped from the chair so fast I dropped my bag. He couldn't be awake. The doctors said at least another week minimum. "Theo? Can you hear me? It's Marina!" Nothing. He fell back into silence, as if nothing had happened. His hand relaxed. I pressed the button to call the nurse, my legs shaking. He spoke. He squeezed my hand. And worst of all: he said "you came back" like he knew me. But I swear I had never seen Theo Alencar before yesterday. One of us was lying. And the contract clearly said: do not get involved. Too late. My heart was already racing.