THE CEO’S 6-MONTH WIFE

2:13 AM. Sam's Diner on 8th. The contract was bleeding ink from the rain. SIX-MONTH MARRIAGE CONTRACT. PARTY A: ELENA VOSS. PARTY B: RICHARD HALE. COMPENSATION: $500,000 UPON COMPLETION. My hand wouldn't stop shaking. "You have ten seconds to decide if your mother lives or dies, Miss Voss," the man across from me said. He wasn't old. He wasn't young. He was the kind of man who looked like a CEO in a cheap suit Richard Hale, the man who emailed me three days ago. "Comfort care is a nice word for a hospice where they let you die slow. St. Mary's called me. They said they have your mother in 3B. $18,000 a month to keep her on the good drugs. You have $43 in your account." He slid a Polaroid across the sticky table. My mother. Clara Voss. In her hospital bed. In 3B. Someone had taken it tonight. My blood turned to ice. "How did you get this?" "I own the hospital wing," he said, smiling. "Sign. My lawyer is waiting. You get $50,000 tonight. You marry me for six months, you stand next to me at parties, you smile. In six months, you get the rest and you walk away. Your mother gets the private suite." I looked at the pen. I looked at the photo. The date on the contract was today. The address was Park Avenue. The signature line for him was already signed: Richard Hale. I thought about my mother's hand. How cold it was yesterday. I signed. ELENA VOSS. Big, ugly, desperate letters. The second my pen lifted, the diner door exploded. "NYPD! EVERYBODY DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE GROUND!" Three men in vests. Two more blocking the door. One kicked our table over. Coffee and contracts went everywhere. Richard or whoever he was didn't run. He put his hands up slowly and started laughing. "Richard Hale! You're under arrest for wire fraud, identity theft, and impersonation!" The cop yanked him up. "You think you can pretend to be Cross Industries? Huh? Third woman this month." My brain short-circuited. "What? What do you mean impersonation?" The female officer turned to me, much softer. "Miss, this man is not Richard Hale. His name is Michael Trent. Con artist. He pretends to be CEOs to scam girls. He does not own any hospital." "No," I whispered. "No, he has a photo of my " She picked up the Polaroid from the floor. Her face changed. She flipped it over. On the back, in thick black Sharpie, were four words that weren't there before. WE OWN HER TOO. And under it, a different handwriting, like someone else had added it as a joke: Tell Adrian I said hi. "Ma'am, where did you get this?" the officer snapped. "I he he gave it to me " The diner door opened again. The bell didn't jingle this time. It just... stopped. Cold air came in. Everyone turned. A man stood there. He wasn't in a vest. He was in a black coat, soaking wet from the rain, 6'2, and he looked like he had been carved out of winter. Black hair, grey eyes, jaw tight enough to break teeth. He wasn't looking at the cops. He was looking at me. At the contract on the floor with my signature bleeding. Then he looked at the Polaroid in the officer's hand. "Who gave her that photo?" His voice was low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made the cops step back. The con man on the floor smiled with bleeding lips. "Your uncle says hello, Adrian." Adrian. Adrian Cross. The real one. He stepped over the broken table, picked up the contract with my name on it, and read it once. Then he looked down at me on the floor and said seven words that ended my life as I knew it: "So you're the girl who signed my name."