The Two-Million Dollar Fake Fiancée

Chapter 7

Word Count: 758 | Released on: Today at 10:09

ella

the news that my mother's latest round of chemo was a total bust. And here I was, play

d a few miles away to a cramped, noisy café, and leeched off t

MacBook practically overheating on the sticky table. T

salary, no matter how sketchy it looked. Customer Service Rep? Sent. Data Entry Clerk? Sent.

buzzed against the table. An unknown local number. Normally, I'd send it straight to voicema

pushed through the heavy glass doors to a rela

ice on the other end was a woman's. Cr

." My pulse ki

ing on behalf of my client regarding your app

s this the two-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year listing Layla and I had jo

My thumb hovered over t

nt was highly intrigued by your resume, specifically your exte

hell did I even write? Something about managing "media fallout" fo

ock. The address and specific protocol will be sent to you via text shortly." Her wor

aged to scrape my voice together

the client until a formal Non-Disclosure Agreement is signed on-site." Airti

e pressed against my ear, feeling like I

ibrated against m

ve lump in my throat, and forced a bright, b

me not to run myself ragged. Every word physically ached. I bit the inside of my cheek

lied, the words tasting like ash. "We're act

brick wall of the café, totally drained. I hated lying t

East Side of Manhattan, accompanied by a ridiculously detailed

in my chest. A scam? Maybe. Walking straight into the lion's den? Pro

and charger into my tote bag. I needed to get home. I needed to dig through the ab

ing to decide m

Chapter End

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The Two-Million Dollar Fake Fiancée

Breeze Modern

“I was fired so my boss could give my desk to his incompetent, harassing nephew. Even after clawing a six-month severance out of him, it wasn't nearly enough. My mother's cancer had spread to her liver, and the only experimental drug that could keep her alive cost fourteen thousand dollars a month. Out of pure desperation, I applied for a mysterious executive assistant role paying two hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year. To secure the money, I signed an ironclad non-disclosure agreement with a one-million-dollar penalty clause. I sold my silence, my privacy, and my freedom to a troubled NHL star just to afford her medical escrow. I rushed home with the good news, thinking I had finally pulled us back from the edge of the cliff. But instead of relief, my mother looked at me with profound sadness and told me she had secretly seen her pathology report. "We are stopping treatment, darling. I want to die in my own bed." She was transitioning to palliative care. Everything I had swallowed-the humiliation at work, the desperate lies, the monstrous contract I had just signed with my own blood-was all for nothing. The fortune I just secured couldn't save the only thing that mattered. Tomorrow morning at eight, a black town car was coming to take me to the Upper East Side. My mother was dying, and I was already trapped in a stranger's cage.”