The Terms and Conditions Of The Heart

The Proposal The fluorescent lights in the break room hummed like a migraine. Maya pressed her palms against her eyes, but the numbers on the debt collection letter didn't change when she looked again. $345,000. Minimum payment overdue: $2,500. "Dr. Chen." She jumped, shoving the letter into her scrub pocket. Dr. Patel stood in the doorway, his expression somewhere between concerned and exhausted. "You look like hell," he said. "Sixteen hours. Double shift." "That's not what I mean." He grabbed a coffee from the machine. "You're too stressed to save lives. Take tomorrow off." "I can't afford" "That wasn't a suggestion." Maya nodded, too tired to argue. She collected her things and took the subway home, the letter burning a hole in her pocket. Her phone rang as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. Unknown number. "Dr. Chen? This is Rebecca Frost, assistant to Adrian Westwood. Mr. Westwood would like to meet with you this evening. A car will arrive at your address in forty minutes." "I'm sorry, who?" "The patient you treated three weeks ago. Sutured laceration, left hand. He has a proposal for you." "I don’t make house calls when I’m off duty." "The Peninsula Hotel, penthouse suite. The car will wait fifteen minutes. Good evening, Dr. Chen." The line went dead. Maya stared at her phone. Adrian Westwood. She remembered, it was impossible not to. He'd walked into the ER at 2am with a deep cut across his palm, barely wincing as she stitched it. Most patients couldn't shut up from nerves. He'd said maybe six words total. She thought to herself, should she ignore this or delete the number then sleep? Instead, she showered and changed into the only dress she owned that didn't have coffee stains. The penthouse made her apartment look like a closet. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city, and everything was glass and steel and cold perfection. Adrian Westwood stood by the window in a black suit, no tie. He looked exactly as she remembered sharp cheekbones, dark hair, eyes that assessed everything and revealed nothing. "Dr. Chen. Thank you for coming." "Your assistant didn't make it sound optional." "Rebecca is efficient." He gestured to a chair. "Please, sit." Maya sat. He remained standing, hands in his pockets, watching her like she was a problem to solve. "I need a wife," he said. She blinked. "Excuse me?" "For two years. Contracted arrangement. You'd be compensated." "Is this a joke?" "I don't joke." He moved to the desk, pulled out a document. "WW Global is pursuing a merger with Litlum Industries. James Hartley is old-fashioned family values, stability, tradition. He won't sign with someone he considers a liability." "And you're a liability?" "Apparently my personal life is too 'chaotic' for his comfort. Three years ago, there were photos. A model. Cocaine. It was her cocaine, but the board didn't care about details." Maya's head spun. "So hire a PR team." "I have. They suggested marriage. Someone respectable. Low-profile. A doctor, perhaps." His eyes met hers. "Someone who treated me with clinical professionalism, without asking for favors or personal attention." You're insane. Possibly. Are you interested? No. "You haven't heard of the offer." "I don't care about tha…" "Two million dollars upfront. Three million upon completion of a two-year term." He slid the contract across the desk. "Tax-free, through a legal trust structure." The number hit her like a physical blow. Five million dollars. She could pay off her loans. Her mother's mortgage. Actually sleep at night. "Why me?" "You're competent. Self-sufficient. Love isn’t something you’ll find with me." The arrogance should've been off-putting. Instead, it felt almost refreshing. "This is insane," she said again, but her hand reached for the contract. "You have forty-eight hours to decide. Read it carefully. My lawyers don't miss details." Maya stood, contract in hand. "I'm not saying yes." "You're not saying no." He walked her to the door. "Rebecca will be in touch." Maya's apartment had never felt smaller. She spread the contract across her kitchen table all forty-seven pages of it and started reading. Section 4.2: Separate bedrooms will be maintained at all residences. Section 6.1: No physical intimacy and no close proximity beyond what is required for public appearances (hand-holding, brief embraces, closed-mouth kisses not exceeding four seconds). Section 8.3: Public appearances will be scheduled with minimum two weeks notice when possible. Attendance is mandatory. Her phone buzzed. Her best friend Lauren. "You're not actually considering this." Maya had made the mistake of calling her an hour ago. "It's five million dollars, Lauren." "It's p**********n with extra steps and tips." "There's no s*x. It's in the contract." "You're still selling yourself." Maya looked at the debt letter on her counter. "I'm already selling myself. At least this way I'd get paid enough to matter." "Maya" Lauren called. I work eighty hours a week and I'm drowning. My mom needs a new roof. I'm thirty-two and I have nothing. Her voice cracked. This could fix everything. Lauren was quiet for a long moment. "If you do this, I'm meeting this guy first. Make sure he's not a serial killer." "Deal." But Maya knew she'd already decided. She signed at 11pm on the second night, sitting alone at her kitchen table with a glass of wine she couldn't afford. Her hand betrayed her nerves as she wrote her name. Then she noticed Adrian's signature on the facing page. It was dated three weeks ago. The same day she'd stitched his hand in the ER. Maya stared at the date, something cold settling in her chest. He'd been so certain. So sure she'd have no choice. The worst part was, he'd been right. She took a photo of the signed contract and texted it to Rebecca's number. The response came immediately: Mr. Westwood will contact you tomorrow to discuss next steps. Welcome aboard, Dr. Chen. Maya poured another glass of wine and stood at her window, looking out at the city. Somewhere out there, in a penthouse she couldn't afford to imagine, Adrian Westwood was probably working or sleeping or doing whatever cold, calculating billionaires did at 11pm on a Wednesday. In forty-eight hours, he'd be her husband. She laughed, and it sounded slightly unhinged even to her own ears. Her phone buzzed again. Not Lauren this time. Adrian. Sign the NDA Rebecca sent. Tell no one about the arrangement. The engagement announcement goes out Monday. No greeting. No congratulations. Just orders. Maya typed back: We're not engaged. We haven't even discussed it. His reply cut her off: Read Section 12. Engagement period waived for expedited timeline. The wedding is scheduled for Friday, City Hall, 2pm. Dress appropriately. She grabbed the contract, flipped to Section 12. There it was, in dense legal language: parties may waive traditional engagement period by mutual agreement. She hadn't agreed to anything. Except she had. She'd signed. Maya looked at her reflection in the dark window, tired eyes, coffee-stained shirt, debt notices on the counter behind her. Forty-seven pages of legalese that would change everything. She picked up her phone and typed: Fine. Friday at 2. Then she deleted it and wrote: See you Friday, Mr. Westwood. His response was immediate: Adrian. You should probably start using my first name. We're getting married. No emotion. No warmth. Just a statement of fact. Maya turned off her phone and finished her wine in the dark. In three days, she'd be Mrs. Adrian Westwood. The math worked out to roughly $6,849 per day. She wondered what her mother would say. What her attending would think. What she'd tell herself in two years when this was over and she was free and debt-free and completely, utterly alone. But that was future Maya's problem. Present Maya had a wedding to prepare for.