The hospital bulb flickers as if it's transitioning, like life is about to leave its body.
I honestly hate the smell of hospitals; it always gives me a nauseous feeling. Even when you're healthy and walk into any hospital environment, there's always this feeling it gives. I don't know if it's because of the drugs or because it's for the sick alone—aside from the caregivers.
Am I the only one having this feeling, or can you actually relate?
I looked at my dad lying still on the bed. The strongest man I know is now restricted to a place, unable to feed himself, breathing with artificial oxygen, and using catheter bags for urination.
And tears welled up in my eyes. The only family I have—it's just like I'm looking at my dad drowning, and I'm unable to do anything.
I buried my head in my hands and sobbed.
"We'll be needing 25 thousand dollars to carry out this surgery, and please, this is an emergency case. We need to start as fast as possible…"
I recalled the doctor's words and sobbed harder.
No. How will I be able to do this?
I'm just 23 and an artist trying to do better.
This is way beyond my reach.
My little earnings from selling some of my paintings have been swallowed by hospital bills—drugs, feeding, little tests here and there. The ones I have left on my online gallery site haven't attracted any buyers. Even if they did, it still wouldn't be enough to cover the surgery.
What will I do? Who will I go to? No family—just me, myself, and my dad. And I can't just watch the only family I have go.
I lamented and sobbed deeply as my little sniffles were drowned by the creaking sound of the door. I immediately wiped my eyes to know who it was.
Whoever it is must be here for us, because this is my dad's private ward.
Damien Blackwell? Am I dreaming?
What the hell is he up to this time? Because I know his presence isn't a good one.
"Hey Eva," he said. "I heard about your dad's condition and I—"
"Okay," I cut in. The tone of my voice grew louder and firmer because no one really cares. I can't give out the impression that I'm suffering. "So you're here to do what exactly? Mock us or pretend like you care?"
He stood some distance away from me, wearing a luxurious T-shirt that showed the shape of his body—those abs. His trousers were finely fitted on his long limbs and a pair of black tuxedo shoes. Those might have cost a fortune.
He gave me a confused look. "Hey, hey, hey, Eva. Can you calm down, young lady?
I'm here because we both need this.
You can call me all names but definitely not a pretender."
"We both need what?"
"Well… Eva, I need five seconds of your time."
"Five seconds is a lot, Damien. I can't give—"
"Like I said, we both need this," he cut me off.
"It had better be important." I walked past him into the patient's changing room.
He pointed at a seat for me. I hesitated before I sat down.
"Eva," he began, "so like I said, we both need this. I'll clear your father's surgical bill and everything, I mean. But on one condition."
My eyes widened. "Damien, I beg of you. We both know what you want from me is something I can't give because I know you too well."
"No, you can. It's simple. Just get married to me," he said.
"Ma… what?"
"Marriage," he replied without a blink.
How dare him.
"You just said it like it's that simple. Do I look like someone who's ready to go down that path?"
"It's not a big deal, Eva. It's a secret marriage and on paper. No friends, no family—just us. I need it urgently for a business proposal.
My company is on the verge of sealing a business deal. The board wants stability, a family man, a respectable face. So I need someone believable but temporary.
And I couldn't think of a better partner than you. No media saga, just a simple girl focusing on her business."
"Oh wow." I laughed.
"I'm just convenient?" I whispered.
"No. You're perfect," he said.
"It's so easy for you to say. No conscience whatsoever.
And what makes you think I'll accept this rubbish proposal of yours?
If you need a wife for pay, go hire a model.
So the almighty Damien Blackwell, the one the media nicknamed 'The Ruthless Billionaire,' can actually have a problem—and somehow I came to his mind as a solution? It all sounds like a joke to me.
The same man who years ago bought my father's company—our only stable source of income—and dismantled it bit by bit now needs my help?"
"Like I said earlier, Eva, we both need this…"
He said this after a long minute of silence.
It was then it occurred to me that I'd been mute after the last word he said, trying my hardest to ponder what my ears just heard—because my brain at some point stopped processing.
"Look, I don't need love. Just silence, obedience, and discretion," he continued.
"Damien…" I finally found my voice. "That's so impossible. I can't do that…"
"Then… you'll have to watch your father die?" He looked at me.
And again, I thought about that. You know your suggestion: 'A model.'
But it isn't going to end well. They'll talk. I don't want any interest drama. But I know you won't—you hate me too much to betray me."
Tears swelled up in my eyes. "I'm not some goods with a price tag, Damien.
I know you're cruel, but you don't have to take advantage of me because I'm vulnerable right now and left with no option."
"But I'm not the one whose father is hooked to machines," he said coldly.
"Be mature and don't pretend pride is more important than saving his life.
Remember, we both have something to lose."
"It's an offer—a good one at that.
You marry me legally but secretly.
We sign the marriage papers, you stay under my roof and live by my bidding. I clear your father's hospital bill. The least I forget—this lasts for just a year. And after that, I give you some money to start a new life.
Everyone gets what they want. Everyone is happy. No strings attached. It's that simple, Eva. You'll walk out rich, I promise, with your dad in good health.
I'll give you part when you agree and part after the deal is done.
Don't make it look like it's a mountain of load for you. I'll leave you to decide.
Remember, we all have something to lose."
"Do I need a ring?"
"Yes, of course. I want it to look real. Few selected people though—no press or cameras," he replied.
"I'm moving in as well?"
"Eva… you know this already."
"What if I fall for you?"
"You won't," he replied curtly.
The coldness of the reply stung me in the chest—not because I wanted romance.
I already know I'm way beneath his league of ladies.
I took a deep breath.
"Another one. I want a copy of the contract."
"You'll get it soon," he said while standing up.
"I'll send it tonight," he replied.
"And lastly—one year."
"Just a year, Eva, and you'll walk away richer." He smirked.
"I hate you…"
"I know," he said. "Let me know by morning. You know time isn't on your side," he said and left.
I sat down, the world spinning around me. The painful part is—he is right.
My dad has limited time, and I need to ponder very hard.
I checked my balance: $165.45, and laughed.
My phone buzzed after a few hours.
I didn't realize I was sleeping. I checked—an email from Damien. It's already past 8 p.m.
The contract comprised eight pages: NDA, watertight, marriage, no intimacy required unless mutually agreed, monthly payment, and no backup plan unless you're ready to refund the full expenses plus damages.
I re-read and re-read for what felt like several minutes.
"Eva, you have no choice," I said to myself.
I recalled a few of his hurtful phrases.
"Remember we both have something to lose."
In the real sense, I'll be the one to lose more. Damien is way too rich to bother.
"I'm not the one whose father is hooked to machines."
"Don't pretend pride is more important than saving his life."
These words stung me and left me with no choice.
I opened a new message and wrote:
Subject: I'll do it
Body: I'll sign, but I want the money transferred before the ceremony.
My father's surgery is scheduled for Friday.
Make it happen.
I hovered over the send button before clicking it.