“Pretend to be my wife,” the billionaire physician whispered, but his solitary condition left her speechless.
He rose and walked towards the window, leaving his back to her.
“There’s one condition,” he said, his tone sharp as a knife.
“You must never, under any circumstances, fall in love with me.”
She almost laughed at how ludicrous that sounded.
“That’s it? That’s what troubles you?”
He turned to her, his gaze as firm as stone.
“This is my only demand. This is a business transaction. I want no complications.”
Her thoughts drifted back to the constant beeping of the monitor, her mother’s fading breaths, and the expensive care she depended on. Her own hands, rough and scarred from carrying supermarket trays and boxes.
Fall in love? Impossible. She would remain as cold as the contract itself. She could manage this.
“Yes,” she replied. “I accept.”
He handed her a card.
“My lawyer will reach out to you tomorrow. We will expedite the process. Wedding in one week.”
“A week?!” she exclaimed. “But… I don’t even know you.”
“You don’t need to know me,” he answered. “You just need to marry me.”
As he left the room, the atmosphere felt stifling.
Emily remained seated, the card heavy in her grasp:
Henry Montgomery, M.D., Neurosurgery.
A man she had barely exchanged words with had just secured her silence through a contract.
She should have felt grateful.
Instead, she felt empty — as though she had stepped into the void.
The penthouse reeked of affluence.
Everything was an icy mix of white, gray, and glass — a stark, impersonal luxury.
Setting down her two suitcases, Emily felt out of place, tiny within this austere world.
Henry entered, still dressed as a surgeon. He had performed surgery on her mother just six days ago, and thankfully, she was recovering better than anticipated.
“Your room is at the end of the hall,” he said curtly.
“We will lead separate lives. We’ll appear in public together, have a family dinner once a month. I will provide clothing and an allowance.”
“At the end of the year, if you adhere to the contract, you will receive one hundred thousand dollars.”
She skimmed through the document: twenty pages filled with legal jargon.
“You want me to be faithful?” she queried, surprised by the term she had just used.
“We are maintaining a public charade,” he corrected her.
“Loyalty is part of the image.”
“And you?” she pressed. “Will you be loyal?”
His expression revealed nothing, a mask perfected through practice.
“I have no interest in romantic relationships.”
“So tomorrow, I sign a paper, stand by your side, and we deceive everyone?”
“Don’t romanticize this,” he replied calmly. “It’s a business matter.”
A flash of anger burned on her cheeks.
“I’ll play my part,” she stated. “But when we are alone, you cannot treat me as if I am worthless.”
A slight tremor flickered over his face — a hint of loneliness.
“My mother will attend the wedding,” he mentioned. “She is… difficult. You should be aware.”
Emily chuckled nervously.
“Dinner is at seven,” he added. “The kitchen is stocked. Do as you wish.”
Then he left.
She moved closer to the window; the city sparkled like a promise she barely understood yet.
On her pillow, he had left a simple platinum ring set with a single diamond.
She slipped it onto her finger; it felt like a question posed to her.
When her mother called later, her soft and tired voice brought a smile to Emily’s face despite everything.
“He’s very kind to me, Mom,” Emily lied.
“That’s wonderful,” Patricia replied. “You deserve someone who sees how special you are.”
Tomorrow, Miss Emily Scott would become Mrs. Henry Montgomery.
The term bore both the weight of lead and the lightness of a sigh.
Eleven minutes.
That was all it took for the civil ceremony.
Catherine Montgomery, Henry’s mother, wore her pearls and her disdain with equal grace.
Beth, his younger sister, in contrast, radiated warmth. She embraced Emily like an old friend.
During lunch, Catherine grilled Emily with the precision of a scalpel.
“Where do you work, dear?”
“At the hospital café… and at Morrison’s grocery store. My mother was a housekeeper.”
“What a… industrious young lady,” Catherine remarked, a sharp smile on her lips.
Henry took Emily’s hand, playing his part.
“I wanted to be sure before introducing her to the family,” he said.
“And are you sure?” Catherine asked.
“I am,” he replied, his eyes locked onto Emily’s. For a moment, she thought she saw something real flicker in his gaze.
That night, alone in the penthouse, Emily reflected: I saved my mother. I can pretend. It won’t be that hard.
She was mistaken.
Days went by.
They coexisted without truly intersecting.
She still worked at the café to maintain a semblance of independence.
He vanished into the operating rooms, returned late, silent.
Yet tiny cracks began to form in the ice:
- A nighttime conversation after a 72-hour shift,
- A meal shared under the dim kitchen light.
She discovered a man worn down yet tender in his way.
He discovered a woman brave yet burned by life, still capable of harboring hope.
Gradually, the lies started to blur.
The cushions that were meant to keep them apart faded away.
The nights grew softer.
But he never made any guarantees.
And when he finally received his inheritance, Emily felt fear creep back in: What would he do with her now that the charade was unnecessary?
The offer.
One day, Catherine found her at the hospital café.
She placed an envelope on the table.
“There are five hundred thousand dollars in here. Leave. Discreetly. No scandals.”
Emily remained silent.
She thought of her mother, of Henry, of everything she had sacrificed.
Then she responded steadily:
“No.”
“You married him for the money,” Catherine shot back.
“I married him because he saved my mother,” Emily replied. “And because he is brilliant, alone, and deserves to be seen for who he is.”
She left, trembling but resolute.
And it was that day she understood: she loved him.
When Henry learned about the envelope, he summoned her to the hospital chapel.
The stained glass threw confessional colors over him.
“You promised me,” he said. “You signed.”
“You didn’t tell me everything,” she countered. “It wasn’t your grandfather’s condition. It was yours.”
He froze.
“I was scared,” he finally admitted.
“Scared of what?”
“Of feeling. Of losing everything. I thought a contract would safeguard me.”
She looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
“And yet, you lost so much more by hiding.”
He lowered his head.
“I love you,” he confessed, as if drawn from him against his will. “Since the first time you walked into the break room wearing that ridiculous coat. I tried to resist. I failed.”
“So did I,” she said with a smile through her tears. “I failed to not love you.”
They kissed.
Their first true kiss.
The years that followed were different.
Henry learned to live, not just to work.
Emily completed her nursing degree.
The penthouse transformed into a home filled with laughter, plants, and delightful chaos.
They remarried, no contract this time, in the same chapel — this time out of love.
One evening, Emily asked him:
“If you could return to that day, would you do it all over again?”
Henry held her hand.
“Every moment,” he replied. “Even the painful ones. They led me to you.”
She chuckled softly.
“Maybe with a bit less drama then.”
“And where would the fun be in that?” he responded.
They fell asleep entwined, their hearts finally at peace.
Their story, born from an impossible deal, had blossomed into a genuine promise.
And whenever asked:
“Can an arranged marriage develop into true love?”
Emily would reply:
“Yes. Because sometimes, the heart recognizes what reason wanted to overlook.”
And Henry would simply add:
“Contracts offer protection. But love… brings life.”