EDORA's POV
The metallic card was still cold in my wet palm, the silver lettering of WILSON GATES mocking the hopelessness of my situation. I sat on the polished hospital floor, my back pressed against the wall, staring at the contact number. The kind nurse who handed it to me had said he had an offer
a 'business arrangement.'
But I couldn't shake the memory of his cold, arrogant eyes, the way he looked at me like I was something dirty he needed to scrape off his shoe.
This card wasn't a lifeline; it felt like a trap.
The clock on the corridor wall was now the most important object in my life. Every tick was a beat closer to the terrifying deadline. 48 hours. The minutes I spent sitting here, fighting myself, were minutes I was stealing from Pop. I knew I had to call. I knew this was my last, horrible chance.
But the fear was a hard knot below my ribs. Calling him meant admitting total defeat. It meant accepting that my best wasn't good enough, that my entire life of hard work was worthless against the power of his money. It meant willingly walking straight into a situation I knew would humiliate me.
What if he asks for something illegal? What if he wants something worse than money? The thought made my skin crawl, but I immediately forced it down. Pop needs me. I will deal with that when it comes. I have to be smart.
My fingers trembled. I pulled out my cheap phone, the cracked screen a perfect symbol of my broken world, and held the heavy metal card next to it. The contrast was almost funny. His perfect world next to mine.
I took a deep, shaky breath, letting the cold hospital air fill my lungs. I typed the number into my phone. My thumb hovered over the green call button. It felt like the moment right before you step off a very tall building.
Click.
The phone began to ring. Once. Twice. Each ring was a tiny explosion against my eardrum. My stomach twisted with dread. I nearly hung up after the second one, terrified of what his voice would sound like.
But then, the third ring was cut short. A voice, deep and smooth, yet cold and sharp, answered.
"I was expecting you, Edora."
I froze. The phone nearly slipped from my hand. My heart hammered against my ribs. I stumbled over my words, my mind racing.
"W-What? How do you know my name?" I stammered. The arrogance of him knowing my name, of assuming he had the right to know, instantly sparked my anger.
There was a dismissive, impatient sound on his end, not a sigh, but a clear sign of supreme annoyance.
"It's called research. And you wasting my time with obvious questions isn't part of the arrangement yet. That's an expense I will charge to your account." The sheer nerve of his answer fueled my rage.
"There is no arrangement! You have no right to research me, and I certainly don't owe you any money for your precious time!"
He cut me off, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more of a flat, undeniable command. "Stop talking. This call is inefficient. Your father's life is currently running on a time limit that I can stop. I need to see you face-to-face to discuss the terms of our transaction."
Transaction. The word felt ugly and cold.
"What terms? You haven't even told me what you want!" I hated how weak and desperate my voice sounded.
"I want a favor. A specific one. And you are in no position to argue its worth over the phone. Meet me tomorrow, 12:00 PM exactly. There is a restaurant called The Vantage Point directly across from the hospital. Be there. Alone. And be punctual."
He didn't wait for my agreement. There was a sharp, final click, and the line went dead.
I stared at the phone screen, completely stunned. He had hung up on me. He hadn't asked if I was free, or if I even wanted to. He had issued an order, like I was a delivery driver. The sheer arrogance was breathtaking. But beneath the anger, a terrible, desperate hope sparked, he was serious.
I didn't go home. I couldn't. I spent the rest of the night curled up on the cold floor outside Room 412, drifting in and out of a thin, anxious sleep. The nurses mostly left me alone, sensing my grief.
When the morning light finally crept through the hospital windows, I was a wreck. My body was stiff and cold. I managed to use a public restroom to wash my face and comb my fingers through my wet, tangled hair. I looked in the mirror.
My eyes were red and swollen. My face was pale. I didn't see Edora Williams, the quiet girl who loved coffee and dreamt of building things. I saw a scared, hunted animal, cornered, ready to fight.
I started talking to my reflection, my voice low so no one could hear in the busy morning restroom.
"Okay, Edora, listen to me," I whispered, wiping the sleep from my eyes. "You are going to walk in there. You are going to listen to his offer, no matter how crazy it is. You are not going to yell. You are going to be smart. You are going to treat this like a business meeting, because that's what he called it, a transaction. You are going to find out what he wants, and then you are going to decide if Pop's life is worth it."
I knew I was poor. I knew I was powerless. But I decided I wouldn't let him see my fear. I had to look strong, even if I was breaking inside.
My clothes, the same damp jeans and the tired leather jacket, felt hopelessly inadequate compared to the wealth of the man I was about to meet. I tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt, knowing it was useless. I gathered the last bit of my dignity and walked out of the hospital toward the terrifying appointment.
The restaurant, The Vantage Point was across the street, but it felt like a different universe. It was on the top floor of a high rise, all glass and chrome, sparkling under the noon sun. I took the elevator up, the speed making my stomach drop.
When I stepped out, the hostess, wearing a perfectly fitted uniform, looked me up and down. I felt the judgment like a physical slap. My cheap jacket and worn jeans did not belong here.
"Table for one?" she asked, her voice polite but clearly implying I was lost.
"I'm meeting Mr. Gates," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
Her expression changed instantly, a mixture of respect, fear, and curiosity
"Ah, Ms. Williams. Right this way. Mr. Gates is waiting."
She led me across a vast, quiet room filled with people having lunch. The view was staggering, the whole chaotic world of Los Angeles stretched out below us.
He was sitting at a corner table with huge windows, bathed in sunlight, making his suit look even more expensive and his face even sharper. He looked exactly the same, impeccable, cold, and utterly in control. His eyes tracked me the moment I entered the room.
I reached the table exactly at 12:00 PM. I looked at the digital clock on my phone, making sure. Exactly 12:00.
He didn't stand up. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply glanced pointedly at the sleek, expensive watch on his wrist and then back at me.
"You're late," he stated, his voice a low, flat command.
I stared at him, confused and completely drained "I am not late. It is exactly twelve o'clock. I am punctual."
"No, Edora. I said twelve. That means you should arrive at 11:45 to mentally prepare yourself. You wasted fifteen minutes of my precious time, and by extension, your father's. Understand this now, I respect time, and I demand that respect from anyone in my vicinity. Don't waste my time again."
The sheer pettiness of his arrogance was stunning. I was literally fighting for my father's life, and he was lecturing me about fifteen minutes. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but the overwhelming exhaustion and the paralyzing fear of his power kept my mouth shut. I just stood there, breathing hard, trying not to cry from the insult.
"Sit down," he commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him.
I sat. He waited for the waiter to leave before he spoke again, his voice dropping to a low, businesslike tone.
"Let's dispense with the pleasantries. I know about your father, Philip Williams, Room 412. I know about the diabetic episode and the acute kidney failure. And I know about the $20,000 deposit required by St. Jude's. Correct?"
His blunt knowledge of my private disaster felt like a violation. My voice was tight. "Yes. That is correct."
"Good. Eliminate the emotion. This is a transaction. I am prepared to transfer those funds, clear that medical debt entirely, and ensure your father has the best care until he is fully recovered." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, a self-satisfied look on his face. "In demand, you will do me a favor."
I gripped the sides of the chair under the table. The fear and the terrible hope were fighting a war in my chest. He was serious. Pop could be saved.
"What… what favor?" I managed to ask, my throat dry. I forced myself to look him right in the eye.
He didn't hesitate. He spoke the words as simply as ordering lunch. "I require a temporary wife. A contract marriage. You will marry me, immediately, for a period of one year."
The world stopped. Marriage?
I stared at him, sure I had misheard the word. I felt the agitation start to bubble up inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. Stay calm. Ask questions.
"A temporary… wife," I repeated slowly, the bizarre words hanging in the air. "Why me? You are a billionaire. You could find any supermodel."
"I need someone who is desperate, controllable, and has zero external influence. You are broke, alone, and under a time crunch. You are the perfect asset. My company is facing a hostile takeover, and I need to project an image of stability to the board. You are that image. Now, what are the details of this marriage?"
The question was a direct challenge. I couldn't hold back the anger completely.
"What exactly does being your wife entail? What are the other terms, Mr. Gates?" I asked, my voice rising despite my best effort to keep it steady.
He smiled, a cold, humorless movement of his lips that was more threatening than a frown.
"It entails a strict public facade. You will move into my residence. You will attend all my corporate functions, and you will smile. You will sever all ties with your current job and friends, no more cafe. And most importantly, Edora, you will be faithful. You will not be seeing any man until the contract ends. This will be an exclusive agreement in every sense of the word. You are mine, publicly and privately, until I decide you are not."
That was it. The final, disgusting term. He wanted to buy me. To own my entire existence for a year, all for a number he could randomly just find under his sofa cushions. He wanted my soul.
The rage broke. It exploded out of me, burning away all the fear, all the exhaustion, all the control I had fought so hard to keep. I slammed my hands onto the table, causing the expensive silverware to jump and clatter.
"You arrogant pig!" I yelled, the sound tearing through the quiet room. Every head in the restaurant turned toward us, shocked silence filling the space. "You think you can just buy a person's life? You think my father's life is worth turning me into your little doll?! You disgust me!"
I didn't care about the waiters, the other customers, or the expensive view. I only saw his cold, indifferent face.
"Keep the money, Mr. Gates! You can rot on your throne of cash! You are a vile, disgusting human being, and you will never, ever disturb my life again!"
I shoved my chair back, grabbed my bag, and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving the chaos and the silenced, staring rich people behind me.
I ran back out onto the street, not stopping until I was back inside the familiar, sterile walls of St. Jude's Hospital. I walked quickly back to the fourth floor.
I stopped outside Room 412, tears blinding my vision, but the rage was still burning, keeping me upright.
I said no. I chose Pop, but I said no to a one lasting opportunity.
I slid down to the cold floor outside my father's room, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs. The clock was still ticking, and I was still broke, but at least I hadn't sold my soul.