Married to My Enemy's Son

The hospital was the kind of place where time moved differently. Too slow. Too loud with silence. The smell hit her first — that sharp, chemical clean that somehow made everything feel worse. Maya stared at the bill in her trembling hands. $62,000. She read it three times. The number didn't change. It just sat there, waiting. Her father had been fighting for his life for three weeks, and now the hospital wanted her to fight for money she didn't have. "Miss Chowdhury," the nurse said softly, "you have until Friday." Friday. Three days. Maya walked out into the cold night air, her mind going nowhere useful. She had no savings, no rich relatives, no one to call. Just herself and a dying father who still believed his daughter could save the world. She was so tired she couldn't even cry anymore. That was the worst part — the crying had stopped, and what was left was just this flat, heavy nothing. Her feet moved. She didn't tell them where to go. She almost didn't see the black Rolls Royce until it was too late. The coffee in her hand went flying — straight onto the most expensive suit she had ever seen. "What the—" The man turned. He was the kind of man you noticed even when you didn't want to. Maya noticed. She hated that she noticed. "Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?" he snapped, his dark brown eyes finding hers like she had done it on purpose. Maya lifted her chin. She had a dying father and $62,000 worth of problems. This man's suit was not going to break her. "Bill it to me," she said. "You'll be waiting a while, but sure."