The clock on the wall ticked louder than the voices around her. Every second felt like a countdown.
Amelia Hart sat on the hard plastic bench in the hospital corridor, her spine aching from hours spent upright, but she didn't dare lean back. Her hands, calloused from too many shifts at too many jobs, trembled slightly as she unfolded the paper in her lap for what must've been the tenth time.
Estimated cost: $86,000.Deposit due: $30,000 within 72 hours.Procedure: Experimental stem cell treatment – Urgent.
A cruel number printed in neat, heartless font. A miracle with a price tag.
She stared at the words, willing them to change. To shrink. To disappear. But they didn't. They never did.
Down the hall, a nurse stepped out from the ICU and offered her a small, sympathetic nod. "He's stable for now. You can see him in a few minutes."
Amelia forced a grateful smile, but it felt more like a twitch. The moment the nurse disappeared, her composure cracked again.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers threading through her hair as she tried to breathe. Everything about the hospital felt too white, too bright, too clean. It reminded her of everything she couldn't afford. As if even air was something she owed rent on.
Her little brother Caleb, barely ten, was lying inside that room with tubes in his arms and machines breathing beside him. A month ago, he'd been racing through the apartment with a plastic sword, pretending to be a pirate. Then came the sudden collapse, the hospital stay, the diagnosis—rare blood disorder, aggressive, progressive, and almost untreatable.
Unless she could pay.
But where was she going to find that kind of money? She'd sold her car. Emptied what little savings she had. Pawned the last necklace her mother gave her. She was already three months behind on rent, and her landlord had stopped returning her calls. The fridge in their tiny apartment held only milk and half a loaf of bread.
Amelia didn't cry. She hadn't allowed herself to—not since the first diagnosis. She couldn't afford tears. Not when every minute had to be spent chasing the impossible.
Her phone, an old model with a cracked screen, buzzed in her hoodie pocket.
She expected it to be another rejection—another job application turned down, another loan denied, another reminder that the world didn't slow down just because her life was falling apart.
But the screen flashed a number she didn't recognize.
Unknown Number.
Her thumb hovered for a second before she answered, trying to sound steadier than she felt."Hello?"
The voice on the other end was male. Deep. Cold. Like steel wrapped in silk."Miss Amelia Hart?"
"Yes, this is she."
"You've been selected for a final interview with Ashford Enterprises. Tomorrow. 9 AM sharp. Dress formally. Office address has been sent via text. Do not be late."
Before she could respond, the line went dead.
She stared at the screen, confused.
Ashford Enterprises? That couldn't be right. It was one of the biggest corporations in the country. Real estate, tech, fashion, luxury brands—they had their hands in everything. Getting in even as a receptionist required Ivy League degrees, years of experience, and immaculate connections.
And yet here she was, in a hoodie she'd worn three days straight, holding a hospital bill, wondering if the universe had accidentally dialed the wrong Amelia Hart.
Had she even applied there?
She'd been sending out so many applications she'd stopped keeping track. When desperation takes over, you don't aim—you just fire and pray something hits.
Still, something didn't feel normal about that call. The voice was too calculated, too measured. Like it hadn't just been a recruiter—but someone used to being obeyed.
She looked back at Caleb's door. Her chest tightened.
Even if it was a mistake, even if she had zero chance, she had to go. Because if there was even the smallest possibility of landing a job—any job—with a company like Ashford, it could be the lifeline she'd been begging the universe for.
Her phone buzzed again. A new message.
Ashford Enterprises49th Floor, Ashford Tower, Lexington Ave.Ask for "Executive Suite 9B"
She blinked. Executive suite?
A strange chill ran through her.
This wasn't going to be a normal interview.
And something told her—whatever this was, it wasn't going to be just a job.
🖤 Next Chapter Preview:
She walks into the marble halls of Ashford Tower, straight into the office of Damien Ashford—the cold, commanding CEO who's about to make her an offer she never saw coming: one year of marriage, no strings attached… in exchange for $1 million.