A year with the tycoon

CHAPTER 4

Hilda's POV

It was after noon when a call came at a time when I was busy washing dishes in the cafe. My phone was ringing in my pocket, and I was nearly dropping it. I simply could not afford to be distracted. Lastly, when I opened it up, the name of the caller was not familiar to me.

“Hey, Hilda Karl? It is you, right? A guy asked when I replied.

Yes, I answered, getting a bit strained.

“This is Ludwig Legal. You must come now with us.

My heart hit the wall. “Must’ve messed up, right?”

You have five minutes till this car is out of your office. He shrugged. “Just go.”

No more questions. The call cut.

I simply stood there, all frozen in my hands. Ludwig, Gregor Ludwig--and, only to say the name gave me knots in all my stomachs. My boss shouted at me, telling me that I was daydreaming, though I hardly heard her. I was just not feeling well, I said and ran out. I was thinking in all directions. He parked a black car on the curb, which was as he said. Two black suit men came out.

One of them politely said to Miss Karl, Come with us.

I do not understand why I attempted, shaking. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” he said calmly. “You’re not under arrest.”

That added nothing.

The automobile shook out into the road and was silent. I peered out of the side window and tightened my bag. Each of the buildings that we crossed was smoother, more costly. As we halted, I throbbed and the breath caught. It was a massive, all-glass building, to which a squad of security was assigned. Appears to be of foreign origin.

It was well polished internally. We jumped out of the elevator in a flash to the uppermost floor. They opened the doors, and I entered a big room, marble-floored, with massive windows and dim lights. It was pretty and so distant and chill.

It is the pad of Mr Ludwig, one of the men said.

My knees kinda wobble. “He’s actually here?”

“Yeah.”

They just dumped me there, and I stood out in my jacket and these low-end shoes. I did not even breathe when I heard some footsteps behind me. He came in as though the room were his, all in control, all crisp in black. Like that guy on the news, Gregor Ludwig was strong, unreadable, distant. He did not smile, did not receive me. He just stared at me as a file that he had never opened.

Sit down, he said, pointing at a chair.

I jumped into it right away. My hands were wet and my heart a-palpitating. Nothing happened for a little bit, and the silence sort of made my chest close.

You saved my life, he at last added.

“I just helped,” I whispered. “Anyone would have.”

“No,” he said calmly. “They didn’t.”

I was not at a loss as to what to answer that. The eyes I drew back to my hands.

My lawyers had seen into you, he continued. “Your past. Your family.”

Heat slammed across my face. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know,” he said. But circumstances compelled me to do it.

I swallowed hard. “So why am I here?”

“Talk about your life,” he said.

I blinked. “Why?”

Because I wish to know you. He said evenly, firm.

My throat tightened. The small skin of my emotions came off, and I was naked. Still, I kept talking. I explained to him that my mom was ill, and the hospital fees, and that I have been working three gigs and remain short. I didn’t look at him. I wouldn’t. Shame burned in the chest.

I was only trying to keep her alive, I finished.

I looked up, and he was still the same--no pity. No anger. Just careful listening.

For a moment, I thought he was making a verdict on me. If he were measuring me.

I was miniature, in the midst of the luxuries I would never possess, narrating my life story to a man who essentially owns a piece of Berlin. I could not even stop because my voice was trembling. By the time I had finished, the silence had been pushed back, even more weighty.

He arose very slowly, and my heart went palpitating again.

Thanks, said he, you told the truth.

I did not know that the reality was causing me to take even more risk than I imagined.

Gregor didn’t just sit back. He turned towards the window and put his hands behind his back, and gazed out on the city as though I did not exist. That silence was as long as it could be, and my chest was as super tight as it could be.

I will be blunt with you, he eventually said. "I don’t have time to waste."

Nodding, I did not know what to toss back.

"I need a wife," he said, all calm. "Legally. Public. Just for a year."

I rub-a-dub, I must have heard wrong. "Uh, sorry… what?"

He turned and came to gaze at me, yet remained somewhat incomprehensible. "A contract marriage. Just for a year."

My heart started thumping. You came here to make me do the stuff, you know what I mean?

"Yeah."

I sprang up and squeaked the chair. “No. Absolutely not.”

Even, he adds, you do not have the whole deal.

I do not need to, I say, shaking my voice. "I'm not for sale."

It is that it is not about selling you, he says. "It’s business."

Then get someone else, I said. "Someone from your world."

"I did," he says coolly. "They all failed."

I shook my head, with tears in my eyes. You think so, because I am broke, you will get me to do anything?

I suppose you are desperate, I think he says. "And honesty matters."

The words hit hard.

He comes near, not far, a few steps. In exchange for that marriage, I will pay all your expenses. Included in the medical bills of your mom.

My breath hits the ceiling. “Don’t bring my mom up.”

Saying that, I will give her the best care, he says. "No more bills. No more fear."

Here I would have worryingly imagined it. Mom healing. No debt. No battling evictions.

Then shame slammed me.

I tell her, voice trembling, Never going to get married to a stranger over money. "Even if I'm desperate."

His eyes stare in my direction, but he remains cold. “Think of it carefully.”

"I have," I say. "Answer’s no."

I take my bag and leave, with my eyes filled with tears, which causes me to run faster out of the apartment, my heart pounding with anger, fear, and worse than either, temptation.

The hospital is reeking of antiseptic, fear.

I am sitting at the bed of my mom, with my hand clenched tight, and machines beep everywhere around us. She is smaller than ever, pale, hardly breathing. I grind my teeth to make her eyes open.

"Hilda," she says. "You look upset."

"I'm fine," I lie quickly. "Just tired."

She squeezes my fingers weakly. "You work too hard for me."

I swallow a lump in my throat. "You’re all I got."

The door bursts open, and physicians run in before she can reply. One of them is in a hurry, voice desperate. We must get her into the operating room.

My heart drops. “Now? What is going on? She is bleeding inside, he says. “We can’t wait.”

And they begin to move her bed, and I get panicked. “Please,” I say, following them. Spare her, pray, a nurse says, be firm.

And I stand in the hallways and am frozen as they pass through two doors. Legs give way, down into a chair, trembling. Minutes feel like hours. I pray deep within myself, with clenched hands.

Then my phone buzzes. I wipe tears, glance at the screen.

A text from an unknown number.

Ludwig Legal: the offer remains open.

My breath hits. I look at the words, and the heart beats fast, OR doors remained closed. And first of all, see perhaps no use.