Bound by Love The billionaire’s contract wife

I grip the steering wheel hard as my mom quietly gasps beside me. Her sweaty hand encloses around mine. "Nurse, please," she says in a tiny voice. "I'm so scared."

"I know, Mom," I reply, trying to be ultracalm. "Breathe."

The light is green. I speed down the city streets, my heart racing. I look over at the envelope on the passenger seat-hospital bill for undergoing the procedure, ten pages of numbers that I simply cannot afford.

Later, in the hospital waiting room, I sit next to her bed in a chair. A nurse staples an IV tube into the bend of her elbow. I grasp her hand in mine.

"It will be fine," I say to him, my voice shaking.

Dr. Mercer enters and opens the door. He looks at me. "Elena, the surgery is tomorrow morning. I wanted to let you know that it is not without risk."

"I know," I answer. "Thanks, Doctor."

Mom squeezes her hand around mine. I give a fake smile.

I am waiting at the Grand Arcadia Hotel that evening for a benefit gala. I possess one white gown, nearly frayed at the seams. I loiter beside one of the pillars, grasping a glass of bubbly water.

A journalist approaches. "Ms. Hart, your service in the clinic is heroic. Let me ask you, how does it feel to be recognized tonight."

I swallow. "I'm simply doing my job."

She nods on, talking on. I scan the room. Crystal chandeliers suspended like stars in mid-air. Money occupies every seat. Men in tuxedos. Women with jewels around their necks and wrists. I am not part of them.

And I see him. Dominic Blackwood, standing across the room. He's talking to VIPs. Tall, dark coat, aura of power. Clenched jaw. No smile. No lean-in. Just standing and listening.

A waiter walks by with hors d'oeuvres. I pilfer one of the shrimp. The doctor's estimate is searing a hole in my pocket. I breathe evenly.

And then I am heading toward the ladies' room. My heels are clicking along marble. I check my face. I finger my hair. Shaking fingers.

The door behind me opens. "Miss Hart?"

I turn around. He is standing there. Dominic Blackwood. He holds out his hand.

"Mr. Blackwood," I say, soft voice.

"Call me Dominic, okay." His tone is easy. "May I come in?"

I move aside. He enters and closes the door. The space is small, dimly lit. Mirrors reflect our faces. I'm trapped in his eyes.

"I watched you tonight," he says. "You're here in the interest of healthcare, are you?"

I nod. "I work for the Hart Clinic."

He looks at me. "That is your last name?"

I smooth my hair. "Yes."

He opens a black leather folder. There's a document inside. It is thick. Pages and pages of typed text.

"I want to help you," he says. "I'll cover your mother's surgery costs."

I gape. "I-I can't accept that."

He holds up a hand. "There's a condition. Read it."

I take the folder and flip through it. Two pages of lawyer's terminology. Payments he will make for all medical care. And in exchange, a two-year contract marriage. No divorce. No children on a rider if he desires them. Public appearances as a couple. He will give me a position at his law firm.

I lean back. "Why do this?"

He shrugged. "Because I can. And because I want to know whether you're real."

I falter. "A marriage contract? I'm not a gold digger."

He gazes at me. "I know."

My heart is pounding. I walk over to the sink and splashed cold water onto my face. Breathe. Breathe.

"Do you want me to marry you?" I whisper.

"Yes," he says. "It's a contract. Two years. I pay your bills. You keep my name out of jail."

I flip through the pages. "I should have a lawyer."

He shakes his head. "You've got one hour to choose. If you sign on, sign here."

He points to a line for a signature.

I look at the blank space, then back at my mom in bed. I think about the bills that won't get paid. I think about her smile in exchange.

"I need a minute."

He nods and backs away. Quiet swallows me up.

I shake as I sign. I sign. Elena Hart.