CHAPTER 6

Elena's POV

The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee always made my stomach turn, but today it felt entirely suffocating. I sat in a plastic chair across from Dr. Evans in the clinic's administrative wing, staring at the fresh stack of paperwork he had just slid across his desk.

"I know this is a lot to process, Elena," Dr. Evans said, his voice quiet and sympathetic. "But because the donor organ is coming from a private facility out of state, the logistics require an immediate deposit. We need thirty thousand dollars by tomorrow at noon to secure the operating room and the transport team."

"Right, thirty thousand," I said, my voice sounding flat even to my own ears. "I'm working on that. But once that's paid, we're good to go for the surgery, correct?"

Dr. Evans sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his temples. "For the surgery itself, yes. But I need to be entirely transparent with you about the post-operative care. Chloe’s immune system is going to be heavily suppressed so her body doesn't reject the kidney. The anti-rejection medications she’ll need for the first six months alone are incredibly expensive. Then there are the bi-weekly follow-up labs, the specialist consultations, and the potential for physical therapy."

He tapped another sheet of paper. The numbers listed at the bottom looked like a telephone number.

"The surgery is just the first hurdle," Dr. Evans added gently. "The aftercare is where the real expenses pile up. Without comprehensive coverage or a massive upfront fund, the pharmacy costs alone will become a major issue within weeks."

I stared at the breakdown of costs, the lines blurring together. Bills, bills, and more bills. It was a never-ending cycle of math that always ended with me in debt. Even with my new salary at Wyatt Enterprises, I would be drowning for the next ten years just trying to keep her alive.

"Thank you, Doctor," I said, standing up and tucking the hospital sheets into my bag. "I’ll... I’ll have the deposit ready before the deadline."

I left the hospital in a daze, the train ride back to my tiny apartment passing in a blur. When I finally locked my front door behind me, the silence of the empty rooms felt incredibly heavy. I didn't even take off my coat. I just walked straight to the kitchen table, pulled Oliver Wyatt's thick manila folder out of my bag, and threw it down on the wood.

My hands shook as I opened the cover.

The first document inside was a standard but incredibly strict Non-Disclosure Agreement. The language was clear: if I breathed a single word about the nature of this arrangement to anyone—including Maya, including my sister—I would face legal action that would ruin me financially for the rest of my life.

Beneath the NDA lay the actual marriage contract. It didn't look like a romance; it looked like a corporate merger. I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the rules he had laid out. They were completely stringent, designed to control my every move for the next twelve months.

Section 4: Conduct and Boundaries

4.1 Non-Interference: The Second Party (Elena Golding) shall not under any circumstances interfere with the personal, financial, or professional business of the First Party (Oliver Wyatt).

4.2 Public Representation: The Second Party is required to maintain a flawless public image. She must accompany the First Party to all designated corporate galas, charity events, and media appearances, projecting a completely united and affectionate marital front at all times.

4.3 Personal Restrictions: During the one-year duration of this contract, the Second Party is strictly prohibited from engaging in any outside romantic, casual, or serious relationships. Any public association with another partner will be considered an immediate breach of contract.

4.4 Residential Terms: The Second Party will relocate to the First Party’s primary residence within forty-eight hours of signing to ensure the media perceives the arrangement as legitimate. Separate quarters will be maintained within the residence.

I let out a shaky breath, dropping the papers back onto the table. It was a prison sentence in a golden cage. He wanted absolute control over my life, my time, and my reputation. But as I glanced back at the hospital bill sitting in my purse, I knew I didn't have the luxury of pride. My sister needed that kidney, and Oliver Wyatt was the only person in the world who could hand it to her tomorrow morning.

I turned the folder over, looking at the very back page. Written in sharp, black ink at the bottom of the cardboard was a single phone number. His personal line.

I pulled out my phone, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't let myself hesitate. If I thought about it for another second, I would lose my nerve. I dialed the digits one by one and hit the call button, lifting the phone to my ear.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

I expected his smooth, arrogant voice to cut through the line, ready to bark another order. Instead, the call clicked open, and the sound of low music and laughing voices drifted through the speaker.

"Oliver's phone," a woman's voice answered. She sounded breathless, her tone incredibly smooth and laced with a lazy, familiar confidence. "Who is this?"

I froze, my hand tightening on the receiver. "I... I was looking for Mr. Wyatt. Is he available?"

The woman let out a soft, amused laugh, and I could hear her muffled voice speaking to someone else in the background before she turned back to the phone.

"He's a little busy right now," she said, her tone dripping with suggestion. "Can I take a message, or should I just tell him to call you back tomorrow?"