I agreed to become my boss’s FAKE WIFE because it was the only way to save my mother’s life.

He’s 39, he’s a CEO, and his public image is a complete disaster. The shareholders are terrified. To complete the biggest merger of his life, he needs a “stable” woman to hold his hand. Props. He chose me because I’m desperate, I’m “disposable,” and he knows I’m broke.

The contract is surgical. Six months of playing happy couple. In exchange, he writes off every medical debt my mother has. But there’s a catch: ARTICLE 4.2 — NO REAL EMOTIONS.

If I catch feelings, the funding is cut. If I broke the rules, I’d risk losing everything I’d fought for. This is a business deal where my heart is collateral. I signed her. I sold the only thing I had left—my truth—just to keep her heart beating for another six months.

We’re at a charity gala, the “debut” of our lie. He holds me by the waist like I’m a prized trophy, and his eyes look warm to the cameras. But as soon as we step into the shadow of the balcony, his grip turns to iron. “Don’t forget to smile, Sara. You look too expensive to be so miserable.”

If the investors don’t believe this, the merger will fall through. If the merger falls through, the bank transfer to the clinic will stop. My mother’s chemotherapy is literally tied to how well I can fake blushing. I’m playing for her life.

During dinner, I overheard him whispering to his CFO as I sat next to him. “She’s a bargain,” he smiled, stirring his Scotch. “For the price of a few hospital bills, I got a full-time fiancée and a PR prodigy. Despair is the best negotiator.”

NAUSEA. I was not his partner. I was the solution to the sell-off. The action was supposed to end at the door of our shared luxury suite. But inside, the silence was louder than the shutters of a camera.

I found him in the kitchen at 2:00 a.m. He wasn’t the CEO then. He was just a man with shaking hands, staring at a photo of his father—the legacy he’d killed himself to save. For a split second, the “monster” looked human, and my heart betrayed me with a sickening thud of sympathy.

Then I saw it. His iPad lay open on the marble countertop. I shouldn’t have been looking, but the notification was staring at me. An automatic calendar notification for the exact day our contract ended. The headline: “CLEANING UP: Stop clinic wire transfers and end public relations cycle.”

It was scheduled for the same day as my mother’s last surgery. To him, her life was just a “cleaning up” item after the merger agreement was signed.

The unease was so tight I couldn’t swallow. A wave of HEAT surged down my neck, and my skin felt like it was on fire. My heart was pounding against my ribs, wild, desperate. I wanted to scream, to break his expensive crystal glasses, but I just stood there, paralyzed. I felt for the man who had the “delete” button for my entire world.

I couldn’t stop. I was going through his files like a ghost looking for his own murder weapon. I found a folder labeled “Contingencies.” Inside were background checks on every nurse at my mother’s clinic and a memo to his lawyer: “Make sure she stays dependent.

If the merger stalls, withhold the third payment.” My life, my mother’s breath, was just a lever he was pulling to keep me in check. I felt sick. I felt like a stray dog ​​he’d bought to see how long it would wag its tail for a piece of meat.

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“You deserve to know the truth about your husband. Tomorrow at sunset. Bethesda Fountain. Central Park.”

I found out my husband was living a double life from our six-year-old son — right in the middle of an ordinary family dinner.

I ran into the room, ready to start a scandal. “You’re exaggerating,” he said in a voice as smooth as silk. “This is business insurance, Sara. Don’t be so emotional. It’s unprofessional.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he whispered, stepping closer, his expensive sandalwood scent filling my lungs. “But look at what I gave you. Look at the room you’re standing in. Most people would kill for that.” He was rewriting my reality, making me feel like a villain because I wanted to be treated like a person, not an hour on the clock.

Then his PR team cornered me in the lobby. “You looked so stiff in those last photos, Sara,” they chirped, their eyes cold and judgmental. “If you don’t sell ‘love’ better, the board of directors will close it.

And we all know what happens to the clinic then, don’t we?” They were his enforcers. I was being squeezed from all sides, I was locked in a golden cage where the air was running out, and the man I seemed to be starting to love was the one keeping the door closed.

The gala was a sea of ​​flashing lights and fake smiles. I had to lean against my boss, laugh at his jokes, and pretend that his touch didn’t make my skin crawl with memories of those Purge files.

Then the lead investor proposed a toast to “true love and the future of the company.” My boss looked at me, his eyes shining with a warmth that seemed so real I almost choked. He leaned over and whispered, “A few more weeks, Sara. Then you’re free.”

Free? Or thrown out? I looked at the cameras, at the shareholders nodding in approval, and realized that I was the grease on the wheels of a billion-dollar machine. If I broke my temper now, everything—the deal, the bills, the hope—would be gone in the blink of an eye.

The merger was signed. The room erupted in applause, but to me it sounded like a gunshot. As soon as the heavy doors closed behind the boardroom, I let the mask fly. “The contract is over,” I spat out, my voice hoarse and shaky. “Stop touching me.”

I expected him to pull out his checkbook, but he just stood there, looking at me with a terrible, desperate vulnerability. “Sarah, wait. The deal is done, yes. But I don’t want you to go. I get it… the contract was a mistake. I want this to be real.”

I laughed, and it sounded like glass breaking. “Really? You had a “clear” signal on the day of my mother’s surgery! You treated her life like an item on a spreadsheet!” I threw my engagement ring—$50,000 in insurance—at his chest. It fell to the floor with a thud.

I was no longer the trembling assistant. “You didn’t fall in love with me,” I hissed, getting so close I could see the panic in his pupils. “You fell in love with the one person you couldn’t fully buy. But you know what? My mother’s treatment is paid for. The transfer of funds is irreversible. You’re officially out of leverage.”

I watched the CEO of a billion-dollar empire disintegrate into a man who realized he had everything and absolutely nothing.

I’m back in my mother’s cramped apartment. The air smells of antiseptic and cheap floor wax, but for the first time in two years it’s clean. My mother is asleep in the next room, her breathing even, the surgery a success. My bank account is stable, but I feel like a hollowed-out shell.

First, I’m an outcast in the corporate world; everyone thinks I’m a “gold digger” who left a billionaire. Second, I’ve forgotten how to feel anything that isn’t a show.

Then suddenly a bouquet arrives with a little note on it, the date and time, the address. And I know who it’s from.

I stare at my reflection, horrified that I’ve spent so much time pretending to love a monster, and I don’t know how to stop.

If the man who saved your mother's life is the same man who treated her like a business expense, do you believe his heart can truly change, or are you just waiting for the next contract to be drawn up?