The Two-Million Dollar Fake Fiancée

a P

said, gesturing toward the leather armchair

clasping my hands tightly in my lap, digging my manicured na

an began. His tone was coated in the slick, practiced cadence of a seasoned middle-manager delivering a

o the stack of unpaid invoices on my kitchen counter: Mount Sinai bills, late notices from the

ons being what they are, leadership has mandated a structural reorganization across

uring. The classic

ile surged

inst the breakroom counter, his whiskey-tainted breath brushing my ear while his hand lingered uncomfortably low on my waist. Each time, I had slapped

aration agreement and a folded cashier's

thick with unearned benevolence. "Sign it, Maya. Let's part ways amicably. I'd

cialized nursing aide for the next thirty days, let alone the rent on our Queens two-bedroom.

the severance agreement, and pushed it back across the mah

said q

use

until he shifted uncomfortably in his high-back chair. "Especially considering I have ye

ffocating. Julian's rehearsed smile vanis

ice dropping an octave as his eyes darted toward the closed door. "Felix

"The only reason I didn't take this to HR six months ago was because section four of my employee handbook explicitly sta

offering him a fai

how the New York Department of Labor would view that sequence of events. Or better yet, how the legal department upstairs w

ck into his face, turning his complexion from ghost-

he two prior settlements at his nephew's prev

for his desk phone. His knuckles were white a

w up an amended separation package. Six months salary, lump sum, full medical coverage through the end of the

down. The heavy plastic

venomous snake coiled on his rug. "You have ten minutes t

kles from my charcoal pencil skirt,

most professional customer-service voice I co

k from across the room. Around him, a few junior associates cast pitying glances my

he ceramic mug, and the small framed photograph of my mother laughing on the Coney Island boa

ought us six months

exhaust fumes, and throngs of oblivious tourists. I lugged the box two blocks over to the parking garage, paid

t, sealing me inside the suffocatin

el, buried my face in my forear

a blink of an eye in a brutal job market. After tho

toward the lower avenues, stalling, terrified to go home. I couldn't walk into our cramped

phone against the co

hed: Zoe Thorne

through my nose, and tapped the speaker button, fo

y,

a," her voice cut through the speakers instantly, shar

a dry sob escaping my chest as I swerved the Civic toward

ears spilling down my cheeks again, h

e silence on the line. Zoe spoke a