MARRIED BY FATE

---

The hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on Emily Torres' pale face. She sat stiffly on the edge of a cracked vinyl bench in the corridor outside the ICU, wringing her hands as the faint beep of a heart monitor echoed through the closed doors.

Her younger brother, Ethan, barely twenty, was fighting for his life inside. The doctors said it was a hit-and-run-multiple fractures, internal bleeding, and a dangerously fragile spine. But all Emily could hear was the number: five million naira for the surgery. Five million she didn't have.

"Miss Torres," said the surgeon, stepping out, his face grim but calm. "We can only wait a few more hours before it's too late. I suggest you make arrangements immediately."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He'd already said it all.

Emily blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. She had sold everything-her car, her tiny apartment, even her mother's antique ring. And still, it wasn't enough. She had no one else. Their parents were long gone, and Ethan was all she had left in the world.

Her phone vibrated in her purse.

A message.

Unknown Number: "If you want to save your brother, come to Westwood Towers. 30th floor. Midnight. Come alone."

Her pulse thundered. Who was this?

She read it twice before glancing at the ICU doors again.

What choice did she have?

---

The lobby of Westwood Towers was marble and glass, guarded by security men in suits with earpieces and cold stares. Emily's heels echoed too loudly as she stepped out of the elevator and walked the long corridor to the 30th floor.

She had no idea what she was walking into.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, she was met with silence. A private office, dimly lit. And then, a man rose from the leather chair behind the desk.

Liam Westwood.

She'd seen his name in headlines, whispered through scandal columns, splashed across magazines. Billionaire. CEO. Ruthless. Dangerous. Too young to be that powerful. Too handsome to be that cold.

His eyes fixed on her, unreadable. "Emily Torres."

"Yes," she said cautiously, stepping inside.

"I'm the reason your brother is alive," he said, walking around the desk and leaning against it. "I covered the initial medical bill. The surgery is scheduled in the morning."

Her heart lurched. "Why?"

He studied her for a moment. "Because I need a wife."

Emily blinked. "What?"

"A fake wife. For six months," he said simply, like it was a business deal. "In exchange, your brother lives. His bills, therapy, everything-covered."

She stared at him. "You want to... marry me?"

"On paper, yes. I need a woman by my side for an upcoming deal. Investors are more trusting when a man looks stable. I need that image. You need the money. We're both desperate."

Emily's mind raced. This was madness. She didn't know him. This was insane. But so was watching her brother die when a solution was standing right here in a custom suit, offering salvation with conditions.

"What's the catch?" she asked.

Liam gave a cool smile. "You follow my rules. You smile when needed. You don't ask questions about my business. And you disappear when the contract ends."

Her hands shook. Her instincts screamed to run.

But her heart whispered Ethan's name.

She lifted her chin. "Where do I sign?"

---

They were married in a private courthouse the next morning. No rings, no vows. Just papers. Liam Westwood's name beside hers on the dotted line.

And just like that, Emily became Mrs. Westwood-by mistake, by design, by necessity.

Liam's mansion was a cold, cavernous place with glass walls and silent staff. He gave her a room-far from his-and a list of appearances to prepare for: fundraisers, press events, charity dinners.

"You're to wear what my stylist gives you," he instructed as they sat across from each other at breakfast, not touching the food. "And speak only when spoken to. You're here to play the role."

Emily met his eyes, feeling the sting in her throat. "I'm not stupid."

"No," he said after a pause. "You're just desperate."

That cut deep.

But she let it. Because he wasn't wrong.

---

Three weeks passed.

Photos of them holding hands on red carpets surfaced. "The mysterious wife of reclusive billionaire Liam Westwood!" the headlines screamed. Social media fell in love with her smile, with his hand on her lower back, with the illusion.

But behind closed doors, Liam was distant. Controlled. Mechanical.

And Emily was lonely.

Only once had he cracked-when they returned from a gala and she'd asked him why he chose her.

He'd poured himself a drink, stared at the fireplace, and murmured, "Because you looked like someone who had already lost everything."