The Ceo's Accidental Wife

Chapter3

Maya's Pov

He had the paperwork ready by the next morning.

I don't know why that surprised me. The man ran a conglomerate. Of course he had a lawyer who could draft a six-month marriage agreement overnight and have it sitting in a sealed envelope on a hospital cafeteria table by eight a.m.

I was still in my scrubs. I'd come straight from the end of my shift, which meant I hadn't slept and I was running on bad coffee and worse judgment. He was already seated when I arrived, suit fresh, not a crease out of place, looking like a man who slept eight hours and woke up ready to negotiate.

I sat down across from him and he slid the envelope toward me without a word.

I opened it and read.

It was eleven pages long. I read every single one.

The terms were clean and precise. For six months, I would present as his wife in all public and private settings that required it. I would attend events when asked, with reasonable advance notice. I would move into his residence within the week. In exchange, my nursing school loans would be cleared in full. A monthly allowance would be deposited into an account in my name. And at the end of six months, a lump sum that made me read the number twice.

At the bottom, a clause that I read three times. *Both parties agree to conduct themselves with mutual respect. Neither party is obligated to perform affection beyond what is socially necessary in public settings.*

I set the document down. "You want me to move in."

"It would look strange if we lived separately."

"We've been married for two days. Plenty of couples don't move in immediately."

"Not couples in my position. People watch. They look for inconsistencies." He wrapped both hands around his coffee cup. "My grandfather will also expect it. He'll want to visit the apartment. He'll want to see that it looks like a home we share."

I looked back at the loan figure. I had been paying off my nursing degree for four years. It sat on my shoulders every single month like something I'd never fully shake. I didn't like that the number made me hesitate. I didn't like what it said about my options.

"I have a lease," I said.

"We'll cover the breaking fee."

"I have a life."

"Which you'll continue to have. Your shifts stay the same. Your friendships stay the same. Outside of the required appearances, your time is your own." He paused. "I have no interest in controlling how you live. I need a convincing arrangement, not a prisoner."

"That's a strange way to make something sound appealing."

He didn't react to that. "The alternative is we file for annulment immediately, George finds out the marriage was a mistake, and whatever happiness he had yesterday disappears. He'll also ask questions neither of us can answer cleanly."

"So the alternative is you guilt me into signing."

"The alternative is you make a choice with full information." His voice stayed level. "I'm not forcing anything. If you walk away from this table, I'll find another way to manage it."

Something about that bothered me more than it should have. Not the words themselves, but the ease of them. *I'll find another way.* Like I was simply the most convenient option and there were others lined up behind me. Which was probably true. Which was somehow worse.

"The apartment," I said. "I want my own room with a lock."

"Already in the document. Page seven."

I flipped to page seven. He was right. "Each party retains private quarters and personal space within the shared residence.”

I kept reading. "I won't attend more than two events per week."

"Reasonable. I'll add it."

"I won't lie to anyone at my job. If someone here asks, I'll confirm we're married and say nothing else. I'm not fabricating stories for coworkers."

"Agreed."

"And George" I stopped. This was the part that sat most uncomfortably with me. Not the logistics, not the money, not even the loss of my apartment. It was the old man in room 412 with the warm eyes who had thanked me sincerely for doing my job. "I won't say anything to him that's cruel. I won't perform something that's going to make him more attached than he already is and then rip it away. If this ends, it has to end in a way that doesn't hurt him more than necessary."

For the first time since I'd sat down, something in Dominic's expression changed. It wasn't much. A slight shift around the eyes, a loosening of the jaw. It lasted about two seconds.

"Agreed," he said quietly.

I looked at the signature line at the bottom of page eleven.

I thought about my mother working double shifts. I thought about the loan amount I'd been chipping away at for four years. I thought about George saying *I'm glad he found someone* with so much uncomplicated relief in his voice.

None of those things were good reasons to sign a contract agreeing to fake a marriage for six months. I knew that clearly.

I signed it anyway.

Dominic signed his copy without ceremony, capped his pen, and tucked the document away. He slid a key card across the table. "The building address is on the back. The penthouse is on the thirty-second floor. You can move your things in from Friday."

I picked up the key card and turned it over. Just an address. Clean and simple, like the whole thing was already settled.

"One more thing," I said, before I could stop myself.

He looked up.

"Whatever this is, I need you to know that I'm doing it for him. Not for the money. Not because you asked me to." I held his gaze. "I'm doing it because he's my patient and I watched his face yesterday and I couldn't take that from him."

Dominic studied me for a long moment.

"I know," he said.

It was such a simple answer that it caught me off guard. No pushback, no indifference. Just two words that landed like he meant them.

I stood up and pocketed the key card. I had seven hours before my next shift and I still hadn't slept.

I was almost to the cafeteria exit when he spoke behind me.

"Maya." I turned. His expression was unreadable again, back to that careful composure. "His sister is flying in from London on Saturday. She'll be at the hospital by noon." A pause. "She's going to have questions that are significantly harder than anything George asked."

I held the door open and looked at him.

"What kind of questions?"