CONTRACT WIFE

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Amina Carter wiped her hands on her stained diner apron and pulled it out of her pocket with shaking fingers. Unknown number. Brooklyn General Hospital. Her heart dropped to her stomach. “Hello?” Her voice came out hoarse from 9 hours of taking orders. “Ms. Carter? This is Dr. Benson from Brooklyn General. It’s about your brother, Jayden.” The diner noise faded. The smell of grease and coffee disappeared. All Amina could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. “What happened? Is he okay?” There was a pause. The kind of pause that ruins lives. “Jayden’s condition has worsened. He needs immediate surgery. Without it... we’re looking at 2 weeks, maybe less.” Amina gripped the counter. “How much?” “The surgery and post-care will be $200,000. Insurance won’t cover it. We need a deposit of $50,000 by Friday to schedule it, or we’ll have to discharge him.” $200,000. Amina looked down at her paycheck in her other hand. $423.18. For two weeks of 14-hour shifts. “Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered. “I’ll... I’ll figure something out.” She hung up and slid down to the floor right there behind the counter. Tears she’d been holding for 6 months finally broke free. Jayden was 10. Her baby brother. The only family she had left after their parents died in a car crash 3 years ago. She’d been working and studying law at night to give him a better life. And now money was going to kill him. Her phone buzzed again. A text from her landlord: Rent due in 3 days. $1,800. No excuses. Amina laughed bitterly. God had jokes. She was about to put her phone away when something fell out of her wallet. A black business card. Thick. Expensive. Gold lettering. DAMIEN COLE CEO, COLE ENTERPRISES “We solve problems.” 80th Floor, Cole Tower, Manhattan Private Line: XXX-XXX-XXXX She’d gotten it 3 months ago. She’d been waitressing at a charity gala in Manhattan. Spilled wine on a man in a $10,000 suit. He’d looked at her with ice-cold gray eyes and handed her this card instead of yelling. “Call me if you’re ever desperate,” he’d said. “I like fixing desperate people.” Amina had thrown it in her wallet and forgotten. But desperate was exactly what she was. Her hands shook as she dialed the number. One ring. Two rings. “This is Damien Cole.” The voice was deep. Cold. No warmth. Like Manhattan winter. “Mr. Cole... this is Amina. From the gala. You gave me your card and said—” “I remember you,” he cut in. “The girl who spilled Merlot on my Tom Ford. What do you want?” Amina swallowed. Pride vs. Jayden. Pride lost. “I need help. My brother... he needs surgery. $200,000. I don’t have it. You said you solve problems.” Silence. Then: “Come to my office. 80th floor, Cole Tower. 3PM today. Don’t be late. And Ms. Carter? Wear something decent. You’re meeting the devil.” The line went dead. Amina stared at her phone. Her uniform. Her $4 tip in her pocket. The devil was her only hope. --- Part 2 of 3 Cole Tower was made of glass and arrogance. Amina took the elevator up 80 floors in a borrowed black dress from her roommate. It was too tight and too short, but it was all she had. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought the security guards could hear it. The doors opened to a reception area that looked like a different planet. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of New York. And behind a desk of black glass sat a man. Damien Cole. He was worse than she remembered. Taller. Colder. In a black suit that probably cost more than her yearly rent. Gray eyes that looked through her like she was glass. Dark hair. Jawline that could cut diamonds. He didn’t stand up when she entered. “Ms. Carter,” he said, not looking up from his laptop. “You’re 2 minutes late.” “I’m sorry, the train—” “I don’t care about the train.” He finally looked at her. Those gray eyes swept over her dress, her worn shoes, her tired face. His expression didn’t change. “Sit.” Amina sat. The chair was leather and cold. Damien closed his laptop. “Your brother. Jayden Carter. 10 years old. Leukemia. Stage 3. You’re his legal guardian. You make $24,000 a year working two jobs and studying law at night. You have $423 in your bank account and $1,800 rent due.” Amina’s mouth went dry. “How did you—” “I solve problems, Ms. Carter. That’s what I do.” He leaned back. “Here’s my problem. My grandmother is dying. She has one last wish before she goes. She wants to see me married. Settled. With a ‘good wife’.” He said ‘good wife’ like it was a disease. “The board is also pressuring me to look stable. A married CEO is a trustworthy CEO. Stock prices and all that nonsense.” Amina frowned. “And what does that have to do with me?” Damien steepled his fingers. “I need a wife for 1 year. You need $200,000. It’s a simple transaction.” The air left Amina’s lungs. “Marriage?” “Contract marriage,” Damien corrected. “You marry me. You live in my penthouse. You attend 3 events per month as my wife. You play the part. In return, I pay for your brother’s surgery. $200,000 upfront. Plus $10,000 a month allowance. Plus you finish law school. My treat.” Amina stared at him. “You want to buy me.” “I want to lease you,” Damien said bluntly. “For 12 months. After that, we divorce. No strings. No drama.” “This is crazy. I don’t even know you.” “You know enough. I’m rich. I’m powerful. And I keep my word.” He slid a folder across the desk. “Contract is inside. Read it.” Amina opened it with trembling hands. TERMS OF CONTRACT MARRIAGE 1. Duration: 12 months from wedding date. 2. Ms. Carter will reside at Mr. Cole’s Manhattan penthouse. 3. Ms. Carter will attend all required public events as Mrs. Cole. 4. NO romantic relationship. NO kissing. NO intimacy. This is strictly business. 5. Breach of contract by Ms. Carter results in immediate repayment of $200,000 + penalty. 6. Upon completion, Mr. Cole will pay Ms. Carter a $50,000 bonus and file for divorce. At the bottom, in bold: SIGN HERE. Amina looked up. “No kissing?” Damien’s jaw ticked. “Is that a problem?” “No. I just...” She swallowed. “Why me? You could have any woman in New York.” “Because you’re desperate,” Damien said simply. “Desperate people don’t ask questions. And you’re not a gold digger. I checked. You’ve never asked anyone for money before today.” Amina felt sick. And grateful. And trapped. “My brother...” “Will have his surgery scheduled by Friday if you sign today,” Damien finished. “Check is ready.” He placed a check on the table. $50,000. Made out to Brooklyn General Hospital. Amina stared at it. That piece of paper was Jayden’s life. “12 months,” she whispered. “12 months,” Damien confirmed. “Then you’re free. With $50k and a law degree.” Amina closed her eyes. She thought of Jayden in that hospital bed. Thin. Smiling weakly. Calling her “Sissy”. She picked up the pen. --- Part 3 of 3 The pen felt like it weighed 100 pounds. “Ms. Carter,” Damien said, his voice softer for the first time. “Last chance to walk away.” Amina signed. Amina Carter. The moment the ink dried, Damien picked up his phone. “Send the check. Schedule the surgery.” He looked at her. “Congratulations, Mrs. Cole. The wedding is Saturday. Small ceremony. My penthouse.” Amina stood on shaky legs. “That’s it?” “That’s it.” He walked to the window, hands in his pockets. His back to her. “My assistant will send you details. Clothes. Schedule. Rules.” Amina picked up her bag. She felt numb. “Thank you, Mr. Cole.” “Damien,” he said without turning. “When we’re in public.” She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Damien.” In the elevator going down, Amina finally cried. Big, silent tears. She’d just sold the next year of her life. But Jayden would live. Her phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number: Damien Cole: Driver is downstairs. He’ll take you to the hospital. The check was delivered 5 minutes ago. Surgery is Friday 8AM. Don’t be late to the wedding, Amina. Amina pressed her forehead to the cold elevator wall. She thought she was selling her name. She didn’t know she was selling her heart. Thank you so much guys for reading💗 amina just sold her name for $200,000 but at was cost? do you think Damien is really cold as he look👀 pls vote and comment below