Married to the stoic tycoon

eps of nurses. Elara Moore sat on a hard plastic chair outside the ICU, staring blankly at the screen of her cracked ph

t of the surgery that cou

savings. No family left

A messy bun sat atop her head, strands of chestnut-brown hair slipping loose to frame her tired face.

s Mo

offee laced with danger. She looked up and was m

in a luxury car commercia

lean frame. His jet-black hair was slicked back neatly, not a strand out of place. Sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jaw,

extending a hand with precision.

ew that name-the ruthless CEO of Blackwood International

usly to her feet. Her voice wavered,

r a sleek bl

he instru

contract. Elara read the bolded

Marriage

content, her f

an Blackwood

on: Si

nces as a couple. No

cal expenses paid, plus

dry. "Is this a

idn't change. "I don'

. marr

need money. It's m

nded in her e

resence was overwhelming, li

press interest. You're desperate, yet discreet. And most imp

nce in his voice. It was a cold observatio

0. Her mother's surgery. The rent. The d

ing someone's wife-even on

er," she said quietl

eplied. "That's wh

hts above buzzed softly. A nurse pushed a medicine

e life had been built around doing the right thing. Study

t thing hadn

doors, her frail chest rising and falling with the help of

ch more she could los

ked up the pen. "Six months?" s

once. "No mo

rt screamed at her to stop, but

an who could either save or ru

Damian was already p

ten," he said. "We'll register the mar

t-wh

e with me. That's p

again. What did she expect? Fake marriages didn'

rp against the harsh hospital lights, Ela

sold herself

for

or pa

surv

ea what price she