Eight Months to Love Me

“Do you want me to call someone?” Lucian stared at the doctor. Dr. Okafor had taken off his glasses. That was how Lucian knew the news was bad. The man wore them through everything, consultations, arguments with insurance companies, even the one time Lucian had walked out of a stress test halfway through because the board was waiting for him. “No,” Lucian said. “You haven’t heard the number yet.” “I know the number is bad.” Dr. Okafor slid the scan across the desk. “Eight months, if we’re being optimistic.” The room hummed around them. Air conditioning. A computer fan. Traffic several floors below. Lucian looked at the scan. The grey shape on the lightbox was supposed to be his heart. It looked like a fist that had been clenched too long. “Eight months until what?” “Until the condition becomes critical. You may have longer. You may have less.” “Define critical.” “Heart failure. A fatal arrhythmia. Collapse.” “Which one is most likely?” “Lucian.” He stood. The carpet shifted under his shoes. He caught the edge of the desk and waited for the room to settle. Dr. Okafor rose as well. “Sit down.” “I’m fine.” “You are not fine. You have a degenerative cardiac condition and you are treating this like a hostile bid.” “Hostile bids have deadlines.” “So does your body.” Lucian picked up his coat from the back of the chair. “What are the treatment options?” “There are two trials worth discussing.” “Which one gives me the best chance?” “The one that could leave you too ill to work.” “Then the other.” “It carries a higher risk.” “Good.” Dr. Okafor looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t have to decide today.” “If I don’t decide today, does the disease pause?” “No.” “Then I’ll decide today.” He left the folder on the desk. His driver asked whether they were going to the office. “Of course.” The answer came automatically. In the back seat, he opened his phone and stopped at the succession documents. If Lucian died without a wife or child, controlling interest in Heather Global would pass to Xavier, the cousin who had spent fifteen years insisting the company had been stolen from him. The car pulled under Heather Tower. “Call Mrs. Winslow,” Lucian said. “Tell her I need her upstairs.” She came in carrying a tablet. “You look pale,” she said. “I need a wife.” Mrs. Winslow stared at him. “I dislike it already.” “I need an heir.” “You need a cardiologist.” “I have one.” “Then listen to him.” Lucian walked to the windows. The city stretched beneath the glass, busy and bright, completely uninterested in the fact that he had just been given a number. “Eight months,” he said. Mrs. Winslow did not speak. “If I die without an heir, Xavier takes the company.” “That is not the first thing you should be thinking about.” “It is the thing I can still control.” “You can’t buy a family.” “I can buy time.” “No, Lucian. You can buy a woman’s agreement. Those are not the same thing.” “I’m aware.” “Are you?” He turned around. “Find someone discreet. Someone who needs enough money to understand the arrangement.” Mrs. Winslow’s face hardened. “You’re asking me to find a person in financial trouble so you can use it.” “I’m asking you to find someone who will not pretend this is love.” “That woman will still have a heart.” “So will I.” “Then behave as if you remember.” She left him with that. At two in the morning, Danica Reyes stood in the kitchen with a calculator and a pharmacy receipt. The numbers refused to meet. She crossed out the electricity bill, then put it back. She removed meat from the grocery list. Nova had been coughing for three weeks and had lost weight, which meant protein was no longer negotiable. Her phone lit up. Zora: Are you awake? Danica typed No, then deleted it. Danica: Unfortunately. A link arrived. Zora: This job posting is either a miracle or the beginning of a documentary about a woman who made several bad decisions. Danica opened it. Confidential private arrangement. Corporate client. Six-figure compensation. Discretion required. Further details after interview. She snorted. “Very professional.” From the bedroom, Nova coughed again. Danica looked down at the bills. Her mother’s name was still on one of them. Six years gone, and the hospital debt kept arriving like her mother had simply forgotten to pay. She opened the message box. I’m interested. The interview was held in a restaurant where the menu did not show prices. Lucian Heather sat at the far end of a private room, still enough to make everyone else look careless. Danica took the chair opposite him. “Your assistant told me this was domestic work.” “It is.” “Do you normally pay people six figures to manage your house?” “No.” She waited. Lucian did not soften the answer. “I’m looking for a wife.” Danica glanced at the door. “I’m going to leave now.” “I have a heart condition.” She stopped. “I’ve been told I have eight months, possibly less. My family’s succession agreement requires a legitimate heir. I need to marry, and I need my wife to carry my child.” The room felt quiet. “And you thought I’d volunteer?” “I thought you’d listen.” “Why me?” “You need money.” She laughed, but it came out thin. “That is a terrible reason to marry someone.” “It is an honest one.” “What do you get besides the baby?” “A legal wife. Protection for the company. Someone who can make decisions for the child if I’m gone.” He said the last part without looking at her. Danica noticed. “How much?” He named the amount. Her mouth went dry. Nova could see a specialist. The debt could disappear. Danica could stop waking up at two in the morning to decide which bill could wait another week. “I want my own lawyer,” she said. “Agreed.” “I want the medical care for my sister written into the contract. Not promised by your assistant. Written.” “Agreed.” “If I say no to anything, the agreement ends without punishment.” “Agreed.” “And if you die?” “You receive the settlement. The child receives my estate.” “You’ve planned all of this.” “I had to.” “No.” Danica looked at him. “You wanted to.” His gaze lifted. For the first time, the controlled man across from her looked tired. “I don’t know how to leave things unfinished,” he said. The honesty took the heat out of her anger. She stood. “Send the contract.” At the door, she glanced back. “Do you have anyone?” Lucian looked toward the window. “No.” Danica left without saying she was sorry. She had learned that sympathy was often another way of making a poor person feel helpless. The contract arrived the next morning. She read it twice while Nova slept, questioned every clause, and signed. Lucian called a few minutes later. “Are you certain?” “No.” The line went quiet. “Neither am I,” he said. Danica looked at her sister’s bedroom door. “Three weeks,” she told him. “That’s all the time I need before the wedding.” “To prepare?” “To panic properly.” A breath of laughter crossed the line. It was the first human sound she had heard from him. She hung up before it could matter. It mattered anyway.