Sometimes survival asks for more than courage. Sometimes, it demands everything.
The night was quiet, but not peaceful. My apartment felt smaller than ever, suffocating almost, as I sat on the edge of my worn sofa staring at the hospital bills spread across the coffee table.
My mother's breathing had grown shallow again, and the beeping of the oxygen machine was the only sound keeping me tethered to reality. I had begged, borrowed, and even sold things I couldn't afford to part with—but it still wasn't enough.
And now, the nurse had called. Another round of treatment. Another payment I couldn't make.
I closed my eyes, my fingers tracing the edges of a bill as if I could erase the numbers with touch. I wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything… but I had no time.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Messages like this never brought anything good. But the desperate part of me, the part that refused to give up on my mother, made me open it.
Meet me at the Solace Building. 3 PM. Don't be late.
No name. No explanation. Nothing.
My stomach twisted, my mind racing. It had to be a scam. Or… a miracle.
By mid-afternoon, I found myself standing outside the towering glass-and-steel Solace Building, heart pounding. The sun reflected off the windows like it was daring me to enter.
Inside, the receptionist barely glanced at me.
"You're expected," she said, pointing toward the elevator.
The words made my pulse spike. Expected?
When the office door opened, I froze.
He was there.
Tall. Composed. Sharp. Every inch of him screamed power, control, and wealth. His tailored suit made me feel like I was wearing rags. His gaze was… unsettling. Like he could see every flaw, every weakness.
"Sit," he said calmly.
I obeyed immediately, my voice lost somewhere between my chest and my throat.
"I know your situation," he began, sliding a folder across the polished wooden table. "I know your mother's condition. I know how much treatment costs. And I know you can't afford it."
Each word felt like a hammer against my chest.
"I can help you," he continued, eyes unwavering, "but nothing comes free."
"What… what do you want?" I whispered.
He didn't hesitate.
"A contract marriage," he said. "One year. Legal. Binding. Discreet. No emotions. No interference in my life. You will be paid monthly. Enough for your mother and more. But you obey the contract completely."
My hands shook as I looked down at the papers. My mind screamed no, but my heart knew yes. My mother's life was on the line.
"What happens after one year?" I asked quietly.
"The contract ends. We go our separate ways," he replied, cold and precise.
I wanted to stand, to run, to fight. Pride screamed at me. But love, desperation, and responsibility won.
I picked up the pen.
The moment I signed, something inside me shifted. I wasn't just making a decision. I was selling a part of my life to a man I barely knew.
The elevator ride down was silent, my bag clutched to my chest like a shield. I felt exposed, powerless, and… oddly relieved. My mother would live. That was all that mattered.
That night, I sat beside her bed and held her frail hand.
"I'll save you," I whispered. "No matter what it costs."
And deep down, I knew: it would cost more than I had ever imagined.