Chapter 1
3 years ago, I worked as a professional girlfriend for a companionship agency, charging by the hour. My job was to accompany clients to meet their parents and help them keep up appearances at events, and it was strictly platonic, with no s****l services involved.
Franklin Baxter hired me for 3 months to cheer up his seriously ill grandmother, Elizabeth.
When Elizabeth passed away, her final wish was for me to become Franklin's wife.
We signed a 3-year marriage contract.
The terms were simple. I would receive $50,000 a month, and once the 3 years were up, we would file for divorce and go our separate ways, without interfering in each other's lives.
But as Franklin and I spent day after day together, I fell in love with him little by little.
I treated that contract as the start of a love story. I couldn't help crossing the line again and again and caring for him beyond what the contract required, secretly hoping he would love me back.
But on my birthday, he spent the night on the beach with his first love, Angela Brady, who had just returned from overseas, watching the sunrise.
When my father was rushed to the ER while undergoing dialysis, I begged him to help me contact a transplant center and ask about the waiting list. All he said was, "That wasn't in the contract".
At a family dinner celebrating our third wedding anniversary, Angela smiled and asked who I was. He didn't even hesitate. "Someone the family hired."
That was when it hit me. To him, I was nothing more than hired help.
That night, I didn't cry. I didn't throw a fit.
I dug that contract out from the very back of my drawer and recited every clause again, one by one.
Starting the next day, I became the most well-behaved Mrs. Baxter on the planet.
No jealousy, no prying questions, no crossing lines. I clocked out on time and followed the contract to the letter.
At 7 a.m. the next morning, when Franklin came downstairs, the dining table was empty.
For 3 whole years, there'd always been a bowl of Cream Mushroom Soup and two fried eggs sitting on that table every morning.
He had a weak stomach, so I'd set my alarm for 6 a.m. every day. I never missed a morning.
He stood by the table for a few seconds, then turned to look at me.
I was already dressed, sitting by the front entryway lacing up my shoes.
"Where's breakfast?"
"Clause 5 of the contract." I cinched the last knot on my shoelace, then lifted my head to meet his eyes. "Party B is not responsible for Party A's housework, meals, or daily needs. I have done too much before, Mr. Baxter."
He froze for a second. "What did you call me?"
"Mr. Baxter."
I said, "Clause 3 of the contract. In private settings, both parties treat each other with courtesy."
Franklin's brow furrowed slowly.
Over the past 3 years, I'd called him all kinds of names.
Franklin, honey.
The only time I'd ever called him Mr. Baxter was the very day we signed the marriage agreement.
Back then, he'd said, "Don't call me that. It feels so cold and formal. It wouldn't sound right if my mom heard you."
There was no one around to hear it now.
"Camille Buchanan, are you still mad about what happened last night?"
He tugged at his tie, irritation edging his tone. "Angela just got back from overseas. She doesn't know the situation. It was just a throwaway line. Do you really have to make a big deal out of this?"
"I'm not mad."
I stood up and grabbed my bag. "Mr. Baxter is right. I was just someone the family hired."
He opened his mouth to say something else, but his phone rang.
The screen lit up with the name Angela.
He glanced at me, then turned away to answer, his voice softening immediately. "Mm, you're awake? Don't wander off, okay? I'll have my driver pick you up."
I pulled open the front door and stepped outside.
It was raining.
I stood under the bus stop shelter, pulled up my phone's notes app, and changed the number "29" to "28" in the note titled Countdown.
Underneath that number was another line. Dad, next week's dialysis fee, $8,400.
I had $12,000 left in my bank account.
3 years of $50,000 a month, and most of it had gone straight to the hospital.
I'd never told Franklin that.
He had never asked, either.
In his eyes, I took the money because I loved money.
At noon, I got a text from him with a photo attached. A bowl of Cream Mushroom Soup sat on his office conference table.
Franklin: The company cafeteria made this. It doesn't taste as good as yours.
I stared at the photo, my finger hovering over the screen for a long time. This was the first time in 3 years he'd ever complimented anything I'd made.
Camille: I'm glad it suits your taste, Mr. Baxter.
He didn't reply for a long time after that.
That evening, Angela posted on social media.
It was a photo taken by the sea; two overlapping shadows stretched across the sand. The caption read, Someone said he'd only ever come to this sea with me.
The timestamp said 5 a.m. on my birthday.
I tapped the like button.
10 minutes later, Franklin called me, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "What do you mean?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Why did you like her post?"
"It's a nice photo. Mr. Baxter, Clause 3 of the contract also says," I said, "Party B shall not interfere with Party A's personal social life. I'm not interfering. I just thought the photo looked nice."
He went silent on the other end of the line for a long time, then finally hung up.
He came back really late that night, an insulated tote bag in his hand, and knocked on my door.
It was a warm apple pie from that old shop on the east side of the city, the one I used to crave when I worked late into the night.
That shop was over a dozen miles from our house, and it closed at 10 p.m.
"I was passing by and picked it up on a whim," he said.
He held the bag out to me, not meeting my eyes.
I stared at that insulated bag, and something in my chest gave a soft little tug.
3 whole years. This was the first time he'd ever remembered what I liked to eat.
I reached out, but the second my fingertips brushed the bag, his phone rang again.
He glanced at the screen, shoved the bag into my hand, and turned and headed downstairs. "Angela says the power went out at her place. She's scared of the dark. I need to go check on her."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood in the doorway clutching that warm apple pie, watching as its heat slowly seeped away, bit by bit.
Eventually, I put it in the fridge.
The next morning, I threw it out, completely untouched.
We'd been married for 3 years, and we'd slept in separate bedrooms for all 3 of them.
Every night before that, I'd always left my door cracked open just a little, waiting for him to get home. I wouldn't fall asleep until I heard the door close behind him.
That night, I shut my door tight.
It turned out that when I didn't wait around for someone, I slept like a baby.
