My Contract Husband

The hospital bill was 3 million dollars. I stared at the paper in my hand and my hands were shaking so bad the numbers were blurring. Mom had 7 days. After that, they would pull the plug. Seven days. That was all the time I had to save the only person who ever loved me. The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and sadness. Mom was sleeping, tubes in her nose, looking smaller than I remembered. Her hand was cold when I held it. "Don't worry, Mom," I whispered. "I'll fix this." But how? I was 24. I worked two jobs and I still couldn't even pay one month of the bill. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. "Miss Emma Johnson?" a cold male voice said. "This is Mr. Carter's assistant. He wants to see you. Today. 3PM. 50th floor, Carter Enterprises." My blood went cold. Mr. Carter. The billionaire CEO who owned half of New York. The man my father owed 20 million dollars before he died in that car accident and left us with nothing but debt and grief. "I don't want to see him," I whispered, even though my voice was shaking. "The meeting is not a request, Miss Johnson," he said and hung up. I had no choice. At 2:55PM I was standing in front of Carter Enterprises. The building was glass and steel, so tall it touched the clouds. My second-hand black dress looked stupid next to all the women walking in with heels and designer bags. I tugged at the hem. The receptionist didn't even look up from her computer. "Mr. Carter is waiting. Elevator to the right." The elevator was silent. 50 floors. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest. What did he want? To collect dad's debt? To ruin me? His office door was open. He didn’t look up from his laptop. The man was tall. Dark suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year. Hair perfect. Face like it was carved from ice. "Sit," he said. His voice was low and had no emotion. I sat. My hands were in my lap so he wouldn't see them shake. "You need money," he said. Still not looking at me. His fingers kept typing. "I need a wife." I laughed. It came out shaky and wrong. "Is this a joke?" "No." Finally he looked up. His eyes were gray. Cold. Like looking into a storm in the middle of winter. "My grandmother is dying. Her last wish is to see me married. One year. You play my wife. I pay you 5 million dollars. At the end, we divorce. No strings attached. Clean break." 5 million dollars. The number hit me like a truck. Mom's surgery was 3 million. The rest would clear dad's debt and give us a new start. A house. Peace. "What's the catch?" I whispered. Because men like him always had a catch. Nothing in life was free. His eyes scanned me. From my cheap shoes to my tired face. Judging. "No falling in love. No touching. No s*x. You attend events with me. You smile for cameras. You play the part. And you can never tell anyone this is fake. Not your mother. Not your friends. Not the media. No one." He slid a contract across the glass table. 20 pages. Thick. The words swam in front of my eyes. My mouth was dry. "And if I say no?" "Then your mother dies in 7 days," he said simply. Like he was talking about the weather. Like he was talking about ordering coffee. "And my assistant will find someone else by 4PM." The room went silent except for the sound of the city far below. I thought about Mom in that hospital bed. Tubes everywhere. Smiling at me even though she was in pain. "Be strong, Emma," she always said. "You're my strong girl." My hand was shaking as I picked up the pen. The pen was heavy. Expensive. Emma Johnson. The ink looked like blood on the page. "Good," he said. He finally stood up. He was even taller standing. "The wedding is in 3 days. My assistant will send you the dress. Be at St. Patrick's Church by 10AM. Don't be late." That was it. Dismissed. Like I was nothing. I walked out of that office with a contract and a death sentence in my bag. For the next 3 days I didn't sleep. I told Mom I got a new job in PR. She smiled weakly and said she was proud of me. That made it worse. On the wedding day, the dress arrived in a huge white box. White silk. Lace. It didn't feel like mine. It felt like a costume. The church was full of people I didn't know. Rich people. Cameras flashing. Reporters outside. And then I saw him at the altar. Mr. Carter. In a black tux. He looked like sin and money and trouble. The priest said the words. "Do you take this man..." "I do," I whispered. "I now pronounce you husband and wife." We kissed. One second. Cold. Dry. For the cameras. That night we went to his penthouse. 100 floors up. Glass walls. Separate rooms. Separate lives. Just like the contract said. I thought it would be easy. Money for acting. I was wrong. Because 3 months later, I was in the bathroom at 2AM. Staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped it. Mr. Carter can never find out.