The pudding cup was empty by the time Lily fell asleep, her head tilted toward the window, cheek smushed against the pillow. I stayed with her until her breathing evened out and the nurses came in for the midnight check. One of them smiled at me gently, the way you'd smile at someone who'd been carrying too much for too long.
I slipped out before the shift changed.
Outside, the air was damp and cool, the city quieting like it was holding its breath. I sat on the cold bench just past the ER entrance and pulled my phone out, scrolling until I reached the number labeled simply: "Unknown."
I stared at it.
I didn't have a choice.
With shaking fingers, I pressed call.
He answered on the first ring. "Emma."
"Jason." Saying his name felt like chewing glass. "I'll sign the papers."
There was a pause—just long enough to make me wonder if he was smugly smiling on the other end.
"Good," he said. "Be at my office tomorrow. Ten a.m."
Then he hung up.
No, "thank you." No "are you sure?" No small talk. Just… transaction completed.
The way he spoke—it didn't sound like he was proposing marriage. It sounded like he was buying a car.
Blackwood Tower was colder the second time. Less intimidating, more suffocating. Like now that I'd said yes, it had every right to trap me.
Jason was waiting in the same office, standing this time, his phone to his ear as he faced the window.
"Yes, finalize the Switzerland deal before next quarter. No, I don't care about the PR angle. Just get it done."
He ended the call and turned to me, eyes sweeping over my plain black coat and the ponytail I'd yanked together in the elevator.
"You're late."
"It's 10:03."
"Which is still late."
I bit the inside of my cheek. "Well, I was busy keeping a real human being alive."
His jaw twitched. "Let's keep this civil, Emma. You're not here for a debate."
"Right. I'm just the girl you're marrying for paperwork."
Jason didn't flinch. He just crossed to the table where a thick stack of documents lay waiting.
"Read it. Or don't. It's standard. One year. No physical relationship. Public appearances twice a month. You'll move into my condo by the end of the week. We marry Friday."
"Do I get to keep my name?" I asked, flipping through the pages.
"Yes."
"My job?"
"You work freelance. That ends after the wedding."
I looked up sharply. "Excuse me?"
"You'll receive a stipend. Enough to cover what you'd make, and more. No need to split focus. You'll be busy managing public optics, social events, and pretending to care about company charities."
"So I become your... paid doll."
"If that's how you want to see it."
I let the papers fall back to the table. "You really don't think people are going to notice that this is fake?"
"They'll notice what I tell them to notice. We'll have a believable story. We met through an event. Fell in love. Kept it quiet. Simple."
"Simple," I repeated, voice hollow.
Jason leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded. "Why are you hesitating? You called me. You said yes."
"Because it's not just me anymore," I snapped. "It's my sister. It's her medicine. Her life. You think this is easy for me?"
His expression didn't change. He just stared, unblinking, as if nothing I could say would surprise him.
"I don't expect it to be easy. I expect it to be clean."
"I'm not some mess you can organize, Jason."
"No," he said. "You're a means to an end. Same as I am to you."
It should've stung. But it didn't. Because it was true.
I took a breath, steadied my hands, and picked up the pen.
"If I sign this," I said, "I'm not giving up my voice. Or my pride. I'll do what you need, but I won't be quiet if you cross a line."
Jason's eyes met mine—steady, unreadable.
"Fine."
I signed.
Every letter of my name felt like a vow I didn't mean, a deal with the devil disguised as a gentleman in custom wool.
When I looked up, he was already putting the folder away.
"You'll receive your first payment today. My driver will take you home. A stylist will be in touch."
"I can dress myself."
"You'll need to look like someone I'd marry."
"Then you should've picked someone else."
For the first time, something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe, or irritation. I couldn't tell.
He walked past me toward the door.
"I didn't pick you because you were perfect," he said over his shoulder. "I picked you because you wouldn't fall in love."
I scoffed at his response and left without saying a word. Lily was awake when I got back to the hospital. Her eyes lit up when she saw the paper bag in my hand.
"Is that... are those the brownies from the café downstairs?"
"Bribed the night nurse. Don't ask how."
"Em, you're a saint."
"More like a very tired sinner."
She laughed and scooted over, making room on the bed. I sat beside her and handed her the bag.
"So," she said between bites. "Mysterious client. How's the job?"
"It's… started."
"That's cryptic."
"It's complicated."
Lily leaned against my shoulder. "You okay?"
I sighed, "Yeah. Just… trying to remember who I am while pretending to be someone else."
She didn't ask what I meant. She just nodded.
"You'll still be you," she whispered. "Even if it's weird."
I rested my head on top of hers. "It's going to get weirder."
She didn't ask how.
She just kept holding my hand.
The next morning, my bank account showed six zeroes.
It didn't feel real. Not the amount. Not the fact that I'd earned it by agreeing to marry a man who didn't believe in love, who saw me as a temporary asset.
I paid the hospital. I paid the overdue bills. I even ordered Lily that ridiculous pink beanbag chair she'd pointed at in a catalog three months ago.
But none of it made the knot in my stomach loosen.
At exactly 2:00 p.m., the stylist arrived.
She was tall, thin, dressed in head-to-toe black, and introduced herself simply as "Vi." She didn't waste time.
"Hair needs trimming. Brows are salvageable. Skin's got potential. We'll do fittings tomorrow."
She circled me like I was a mannequin, not a person. When I flinched at the price tags, she said, "Mr. Blackwood has a budget. You don't need to worry about numbers."
"He's not Mr. Blackwood anymore," I said tightly. "He's Jason. Jason Blackwood."
Vi smirked. "You'll be Mrs. Blackwood soon. You should get used to it."
I looked at myself in the mirror as she held up a cream-colored dress. It looked soft, expensive, and timeless.
I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me.
She looked like she belonged to someone else.
That night, I stood outside Jason's penthouse condo, keycard in hand. The driver had dropped me off without a word.
The door opened before I could knock.
Jason stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and tie undone. The smell of whiskey lingered faintly in the air.
"You're early," he said.
"I'm not here for dinner."
He moved aside, letting me in.
The place was sleek, modern, and impersonal. Glass, chrome, gray. Like him.
I set my bag down and turned to face him.
"There's one thing I forgot to ask."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"What happens if someone finds out this marriage is fake?"
His face didn't change, but his voice cooled.
"Then we both lose."
"How?"
"I lose the board's trust. The company. The inheritance. You lose the money. And whatever reputation you're holding onto."
He stepped closer, his presence too large for the room.
"So don't let that happen."
I stared up at him.
And for the first time, I realized something terrifying.
This wasn't just a deal anymore.
It was a lie I'd have to live, and if I didn't play it right...it would destroy us both.
Jason's eyes were still on me, cold and unreadable. The silence stretched until it felt like the walls were listening in.
"You're staring," I said, my voice sharper than I meant.
"You're tense."
"Should I be relaxed? I just sold myself to pay hospital bills and overdue debts."
"That's not how I remember it."
"No?" I stepped past him and walked into the living room. "Then remind me, Jason. Did you get down on one knee? Or did I hallucinate the part where you laid out a contract like I was a damn business deal you had to close?"
Jason followed me into the living room, his tone flat. "I don't waste time on sentiment. This is business. You agreed."
"I agreed because my sister's dying."
"And now she won't be," he said simply. "You got what you wanted. So did I."
I turned around sharply. "No. You got control. I got survival. There's a difference."
He looked at me for a long beat before walking to the bar cart near the far window. Without asking, he poured himself a drink.
"You want one?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"I don't drink with strangers."
"Then you'd better get used to me. You're about to be my wife."
I hated the way he said it. Like it was a script. A necessary evil. Not a vow, not a promise—just another line in a business deal.
"Are you always this charming?" I muttered, dropping onto the cream leather couch.
Jason sat across from me, sipping his whiskey like it was water. "I don't have time to be charming. Charm is for people who want to be liked."
"And you don't?"
He looked amused by the question. "I want results. If I'm respected, that's a bonus. Liked? Not a priority."
I studied him, really studied him. Everything about him was calculated. Tailored. Crisp. But beneath that—beneath the expensive suit and the surgical precision of his words—there was a man who didn't let people in. Not even a crack.
"Has anyone ever told you you're exhausting?"
"Often," he replied without missing a beat.
"And yet somehow I'm the one who feels like she's running a marathon barefoot."
"You'll acclimate."
"That's not comforting, Jason."
He set his glass down and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "You want comfort? Then you're in the wrong apartment. The wrong arrangement."
"I'm not here for comfort," I said, standing. "I'm here because you wrote a check big enough to buy a miracle. Let's not pretend neither of us got lucky."
We stood across from each other again, the space between us thick with everything we weren't saying.
After a long silence, Jason spoke, softer this time.
"I had a brother."
I blinked. "What?"
He didn't look at me. His gaze had drifted somewhere distant, some place I couldn't see. "His name was Caleb. He died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four by the time they caught it."
I swallowed, the edges of my anger blurring. "I'm sorry."
"I didn't tell you for sympathy," he said. "I'm telling you because I know what it's like to watch someone fade. And I know what it costs—emotionally, financially. Every decision after that felt like survival."
Something in my chest shifted. Not pity. Just… recognition. The quiet kind that comes when someone cracks open a truth you weren't expecting.
"Why didn't you just say that from the beginning?" I asked quietly.
"Because it doesn't change anything," he said. "We're still pretending. Still lying. But maybe now you'll understand why I don't do messy."
"People are messy, Jason. You can't out-plan grief."
"No. But I can make sure it doesn't ruin everything else."
I didn't have an answer for that.
He moved toward the hallway. "There's a guest room on the left. Yours, until the wedding. After that, we'll share the master for appearances."
I raised a brow. "Appearances only?"
"Yes. Like I said—no physical relationship."
I hesitated, then muttered, "I think I liked you better when you were just cold. Now you're confusing."
He smirked faintly but didn't look back. "Good night, Emma."
He disappeared down the hall.
I stood there, alone in a penthouse that felt more like a luxury showroom than a home.
And for the first time, I wondered—not whether I could play the part...but whether I'd lose myself in the role.