02

Lia

If anyone had told me that one day I'd find myself in a sparkling white office, staring at a man with enough money to buy a private island on a whim, while he proposed marriage to me, I would’ve laughed them out of the room. But, funny enough, I wasn’t laughing. Not even close.

My life had crumbled around me faster than I could process. My mother was in the hospital, battling a condition that the doctors had already written off as irreversible. The same doctors who never missed a beat in telling me, with that tone only the well-off can use, that there was "nothing left to do." Meanwhile, I was drowning in debt with each passing day, barely keeping my head above water. My finances were so bad that I couldn’t even keep up with my rent. Now, I was one step away from being homeless, penniless, and utterly hopeless.

Then came Petrik Ivanov, the man who looked like he’d been carved out of a block of ice, staring at me as if he could see right through every layer of my carefully constructed composure. His proposal was absurd, surreal even. Marry him, he said, and he would solve all my problems. What he wanted in return? Just a ring on his finger and a "wife" to play the part. No complications, no love story, just a contract.

I laughed out loud — or maybe I just thought I did, because the silence in the room didn’t break. "Wait," I managed to choke out, "you actually want me to marry you?"

Petrik’s expression didn’t change. His cold blue eyes didn’t waver; he barely moved a muscle. "Precisely," he replied, as if proposing marriage to a nearly homeless secretary was the most logical thing in the world. "And in exchange, you’ll receive one million dollars, along with the peace of mind that you won’t have to worry about your mother’s medical bills again. A contract, Lia. Nothing more."

One million dollars. The number echoed in my mind like a siren blaring through fog. I tried to swallow, but my throat was bone dry, and I could barely breathe. One million dollars would be enough to cover my mother’s treatment, give her a fighting chance — even if it was just to make her more comfortable, at least she wouldn’t have to suffer for lack of care. But here he was, offering me that relief on a silver platter, with a look that said he already knew I’d accept.

“What’s the catch?” I asked, trying to sound more skeptical than desperate.

He looked at me as if I’d just asked him to clarify that the sky was blue. "The catch," he said slowly, his voice so measured it was almost eerie, "is that I get what I need. A wife. Someone who will uphold my image and make sure I inherit my grandfather's fortune. And in exchange, you’ll get security." His gaze sharpened, like a predator watching a wounded animal. "But make no mistake, Lia. This isn’t a favor. It’s a business deal."

Right. Business. I could feel my cheeks heating up with a strange blend of humiliation and anger. He saw me as nothing more than a transaction, a convenient means to an end. For him, one million dollars was probably a drop in the ocean. For me, it was a lifeline thrown to someone who’d been treading water for far too long.

With a trembling voice, I mentioned my mother. “She’s… she’s in the hospital. They said the condition is irreversible, but there are treatments that could help. I just… I can’t afford them. Not even close.”

The words fell out of me like weights, and yet he didn’t even flinch. There was no trace of pity in his eyes, no softening of his expression. "I know," he replied, his tone as neutral as if we were discussing the weather. "And that’s precisely why you’ll agree to this. Because, Lia, one million dollars can solve a lot of problems, yours included."

I forced myself to breathe. This man had no idea what it felt like to be in my shoes, to see your loved one slipping away because you couldn’t afford to help. Yet, here he was, dangling a solution in front of me with a look that said he’d won before I’d even spoken.

But what made me hesitate wasn’t pride. I’d lost that a long time ago. It was the sense that by accepting his proposal, I’d be stepping into a game I wasn’t prepared to play. Marriage? To a man like him? It was a setup with rules I couldn’t even begin to understand.

Yet, I couldn’t deny it — his cold logic appealed to something deep within me. For the first time in months, I could envision a future where I wasn’t weighed down by debt, where I wasn’t losing sleep over how I’d make it to the next day. I could save my mother, get a roof over my head, and still have something left to keep us going. And what did he want in return? Just my signature on a piece of paper and a role to play.

"Fine," I said at last, my voice barely above a whisper, fighting the lump in my throat. “I accept.”

He watched me, his mouth curving into a small, satisfied smile that made my stomach churn. "Good," he replied, as if I’d just agreed to split a pizza instead of committing myself to a marriage contract.

There was something almost infuriating about his calmness, about the way he seemed so certain of his power over me. But as I looked at him, one thing was clear: I might be his "wife" on paper, but that didn’t mean he owned me. This was a game he was starting, but he had no idea who he’d just invited to play.

With that thought, I gave him a thin smile, one that was just as cold as his own. He might have one million reasons to think he’d won, but I had one million reasons to prove him wrong. Because, at the end of the day, I had something he could never buy — the will to survive on my own terms, no matter what.