His Counterfeit Bride

quaint but constantly bustling diner nestled on the edge of the city's financial district. My feet ached, a familiar throb that started in my arches and crept insidiously up my calves, a constant c

g late-stage lupus for the better part of a decade, a cruel, relentless autoimmune disease that had slowly, systematically attacked her organs, leaving her frail, perpetually fatigued, and

en the world felt like it was actively trying to break me. But beneath the polite smile I offered to the businessman gesturing impatiently, my mind was a frantic calculator, tallying tips, shifts, and the terrifying deficit that grew larger with each passing day. The last specia

ould work out. But I knew the truth. "Working out" meant finding a miracle, and miracles didn't pay hospital bills. I took a deep, shaky breath, my gaze drifting to the small, intricately woven bracelet on my wrist – a gift my mother had made years ago, a delicate s

en doorway, pulling me back to the present. "Don't forget the

arco for the shift, promising to work double-time at the diner to make up for the staffing gap. This wasn't just about making a dent in the bills; it was about the specialist Tabitha needed to see, the one with the revolution

floors. The air, thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, aged whiskey, and rare orchids, felt alien to me. Waiters in crisp uniforms moved with balletic precision, navigating clusters of men in tailored suits

the hushed conversations that hinted at deals being made and fortunes changing hands in this gilded cage. My assigned section was near the main stage, where a string quartet played classical melodi

ty, holding court with an effortle

t it out, and transformed it into Vale Luxuries-a global empire synonymous with exquisite craftsmanship, cutting-edge design, and eye-watering prices. His story was legendary in the city: a self-made man, a true "grass-to-grace" narrative.

rcing shade of grey that seemed to miss nothing. When he smiled, it was a dazzling, disarming flash of white teeth, directed exclusively at the men in power suits and the imp

ful. A moment later, a junior assistant, flustered and clearly new, bumped into a server near Ronan, causing a ripple of near-disaster. Ronan's smile vanished. His eyes, just moments ago crinkling with feigned amusement, hardened into chips of ice. He didn't raise his voice, didn't

charming, even magnanimous. To those beneath him, those who served and toiled, he was dismissive, almost contemptuous. It was a stark reminder of the chasm between

augh from a portly man caused me to falter. My tray tilted precariously. Just as the flutes threatened to slide, I deftly shifted my weight, bringing the tray back to level,

caught my near-disaster, and my swift, quiet recovery. His expression remained unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, a spark of something-recognition? calc

quiet, ornate hallway, ostensibly to reorganize my serving station.

y voice even. "I received your email... about the payment due for the advanced therapy. I... I know. I'm doing my best. Is th

llway amplifying the frantic beat of my own heart. It was a dead end. They needed the full upfront payment. It was more money than I could earn in a year, maybe two. Where could I find it? My shou

d to eavesdrop, but the sheer emotional weight of the words carried. He recognized the waitress from earlier, the one with the quiet, nimble hands. He heard the pleading, the mention of "medical bills," "advanced therapy," "her best chance." And then, the unmistakable sound of raw, unadulterate

Thorne & Co.', the legacy jewelry brand he was determined to acquire. They were traditionalists, obsessed with "family values" and "stability," wary of his aggressive, self-made image. His previous, fleeting relatio

able of maintaining composure under pressure, and seemingly invisib

nce, a severe-looking woman in a sleek black suit approached me. "Miss Carr

noticed my emotional moment? Had I spilled something earlier that he was only now addressing? My m

seem small and insignificant. Ronan Vale stood by the window, his back to me, a silhouette against the vibrant cityscape. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable

ooth, and utterly devoid of warmth. "I overhear

sorry, Mr. Vale. It was unprofessional, I know.

nd. "No need to explain. I'm not here to chast

ct an image of stability and commitment." His gaze was steady, piercing. "In exchange, I will cover all of your mother's medical expenses for the duration of this arrangement. And I mean all of them. Spe

s insane. A "fake fiancée"? For him? The numbers he was subtly hinting at wer

I managed, my voi

hich means you have no preconceived notions and no connections that could complicate matters. And," his eyes dropped, almost imperceptibly, to my cl

d. It was cold, clinical, utterly dehumanizing. Everything in me screamed to refuse, to walk away, to reta

ising tide of medical debt. The specialist, the hope, the chance. It was a suffocating weight, pressing down on me, robbing

hat... what exactly would this entail?" I asked, my voice barely

oice flat. "But primarily, you will be my fiancée. You will accompany me to all necessary functions, smile for the cameras, and say nothing that hasn't been approved. You will live in one of my residences for

s I looked at the contract, the harsh black ink stark against the white page. My mind screamed no, but my heart, full of

d as I reached