Married to the stoic tycoon

The scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the hospital air, mixed with the faint beep of heart monitors and hushed footsteps of nurses. Elara Moore sat on a hard plastic chair outside the ICU, staring blankly at the screen of her cracked phone. Her eyes were red-rimmed, not just from sleepless nights, but from the weight of a life crumbling beneath her feet.

$38,700. That was the cost of the surgery that could save her mother's life.

She swallowed hard. No savings. No family left to turn to. No miracle.

Her navy scrubs clung to her slender frame, wrinkled and damp with the sweat of her twelve-hour shift. A messy bun sat atop her head, strands of chestnut-brown hair slipping loose to frame her tired face. Her eyes-once bright and curious-were now dulled by worry, dark circles painting shadows beneath them.

"Miss Moore?"

The voice was deep-rich and smooth, like black coffee laced with danger. She looked up and was momentarily stunned by the man standing before her.

He looked like he belonged in a luxury car commercial, not a hospital hallway.

Towering at over six feet, the man wore a tailored charcoal-gray suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean frame. His jet-black hair was slicked back neatly, not a strand out of place. Sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and storm-gray eyes that seemed to pierce through her soul completed the image of a man both powerful and untouchable.

"I'm Damian Blackwood," he said, extending a hand with precision. "May I have a moment of your time?"

Elara blinked. Damian Blackwood. Everyone in New York knew that name-the ruthless CEO of Blackwood International, a billionaire with a reputation as cold as winter steel.

"Uh... sure," she said, rising cautiously to her feet. Her voice wavered, caught between confusion and disbelief.

He handed her a sleek black envelope.

"Open it," he instructed calmly.

Inside was a crisp, neatly typed contract. Elara read the bolded title and felt her stomach drop.

Temporary Marriage Agreement

She skimmed the content, her fingers trembling.

Parties: Damian Blackwood & Elara Moore

Duration: Six Months

Terms: Public appearances as a couple. No emotional involvement.

Compensation: Full medical expenses paid, plus a lump sum of $100,000.

Her throat went dry. "Is this a joke?" she asked.

Damian's expression didn't change. "I don't joke about business."

"But... marriage?"

"I need a wife. You need money. It's mutually beneficial."

Her pulse pounded in her ears. "Why me?"

Damian stepped closer. His presence was overwhelming, like a storm cloud pressing in.

"I've done my research. You're a nurse. Quiet. No scandal. No press interest. You're desperate, yet discreet. And most importantly"-his eyes locked with hers-"you won't fall in love."

Elara's breath caught. There was no arrogance in his voice. It was a cold observation, like he was reciting facts from a report.

She looked back at the contract. $100,000. Her mother's surgery. The rent. The debt collectors. Six months of pretending.

But the weight of it... being someone's wife-even on paper-was no small thing.

"I'm not a gold digger," she said quietly, her voice cracking.

"I know," Damian replied. "That's why you're perfect."

Silence stretched between them. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly. A nurse pushed a medicine cart past, glancing curiously at the unlikely pair.

Elara stared at the pen attached to the folder. Her entire life had been built around doing the right thing. Studying hard. Taking care of her mother. Working double shifts.

But the right thing hadn't saved her.

She thought of her mother lying unconscious behind the ICU doors, her frail chest rising and falling with the help of machines. She thought of the eviction notice waiting at home.

She thought of how much more she could lose if she did nothing.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the pen. "Six months?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Damian nodded once. "No more. No less."

She took a deep breath. Her heart screamed at her to stop, but desperation muffled the sound.

With one final glance at the man who could either save or ruin her, Elara signed her name.

When she looked up, Damian was already pulling out his phone.

"My driver will pick you up tomorrow at ten," he said. "We'll register the marriage, then move you into my penthouse."

"Wait-what?"

"You'll need to live with me. That's part of the contract."

Elara opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. What did she expect? Fake marriages didn't come with separate bedrooms and personal space.

As Damian walked away, his silhouette sharp against the harsh hospital lights, Elara felt the ground shift beneath her feet.

She had just sold herself to a stranger.

Not for love.

Not for passion.

For survival.

And she had no idea what price she would truly pay.