The Proposal

Chapter One:

The fluorescent lights of St. Marian’s Emergency Room pulsed overhead like the heartbeat of a dying god. It was chaos, as always, nurses shouting orders, beeping monitors, and the heavy scent of antiseptic and blood mingling in the air. Dr. Amelia Hart moved through it all like a ghost in scrubs. Focused. Controlled. Exhausted beyond measure.

Fourteen hours on her feet. A hundred patients, maybe more. Her stethoscope felt like a chain around her neck, and her auburn hair clung to her face in sweat-slicked curls. Still, she stitched and cleaned and saved, because someone had to.

"Chainsaw slipped," the construction worker grunted as she cleaned the gash on his forearm. "It's not that bad."

"You’re bleeding through half a towel," she replied, voice dry. "I’m going to have to disagree."

He chuckled, but she barely registered it. Her mind drifted. To the clinic. To the funding she still hadn't secured. To the threat letter from the hospital board that morning, buried beneath the weight of all her responsibilities.

The doors to the ER hissed open, letting in a gust of cool air and a very familiar voice.

"Ten minutes, Amelia. If you’re not out by then, I’m staging a medical intervention."

Jane. Her best friend. Fellow doctor. Eternal pain in the ass.

"Five more stitches," Amelia muttered without looking up.

Jane appeared beside her, hands on hips. "You look like a ghost. When was your last meal?"

"Does caffeine count?"

"Come on. You’re done. You need fries. Maybe even a milkshake."

Amelia sighed and finished the last stitch."Alright, we're good here." She smiled at the man.

"Thanks Doc."

"No problem. Just... don't get yourself almost amputated again."

"I'll try." He stood up with a laugh.

She stripped off her gloves and stood, muscles aching in protest.

***

The diner was a time capsule from the '70s neon signs, cracked vinyl booths, and the ever-present scent of grease. Jane slid a plate of fries across the table.

"Eat. Talk. What’s going on with the clinic?"

Amelia hesitated. Then she told her. The budget cuts. The lack of donations. The final nail in the coffin: the board would shut them down if she couldn’t produce a miracle within the month.

Jane swore under her breath. "Amy, you can’t keep carrying this alone. It’s not fair."

"Fair doesn’t keep the lights on. Fair doesn't help the people that can't afford fancy healthcare, Jane."

Jane reached across the table, grabbing Amelia’s hand. "We’ll figure something out."

But Amelia didn’t reply. She stared out the window, her face pale and tired.

***

Across the city, in a high-rise bathed in moonlight, Frederick Blackwell read his grandfather’s will for the third time that night.

Marry by thirty-five, or lose control of Blackwell Media.

He had two weeks.

Luke, his oldest friend and legal counsel, leaned against the window. "You need a bride."

Frederick snorted. "You mean a plan."

"No, I mean a bride. Temporary. Legal. Someone credible. Someone without a scandal."

"Where do you expect me to find someone who's credible and without a scandal and might I add desperate enough to want this."

"We could set out an ad but that will bring unnecessary publicity."

A name flashed in Frederick's's mind. A woman he's kept tabs on for six years.

Frederick strode to his chair and pulled out a notepad. Scribbling an address on the notepad, he tore it and handed it to Luke.

Frederick didn’t smile. "Find her. Tonight."

***

Amelia was folding towels in the hospital laundry room when her phone rang. Unknown number.

"Dr. Hart."

"Good evening, Dr. Hart," said a smooth voice. "My name is Luke Walsh. I represent Mr. Frederick Blackwell. He’d like to meet. It’s regarding a business opportunity that could... resolve your clinic’s financial troubles."

She narrowed her eyes. "I don’t do celebrity house calls."

"It’s not medical. But it is urgent. Tomorrow morning, Blackwell Tower."

She almost hung up. Almost.

But curiosity was a powerful thing.

***

Blackwell Tower was made of glass and intimidation. Amelia felt like a fraud the moment she stepped inside, her scrubs still wrinkled from last night.

Frederick Blackwell was already waiting. His presence was a force. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous. Everything about him screamed control.

"Dr. Hart," he said, pouring a drink but not offering one. "Thank you for coming."

"Make it quick. I have a shift."

"I need a wife. Temporarily. In name only."

She stared. Blinked. Laughed.

"Excuse me?"

"It’s a business arrangement. One year. No intimacy. No expectations. In exchange, I fund your clinic indefinitely and pay off your student loans."

"You’re insane."

"Possibly. But I’m also your best offer."

Her blood boiled. "Because I’m desperate?"

His voice softened. "Because you’re honorable. And I’m out of time."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," he said, stepping closer. Not touching. But near enough that she felt the tension rise between them like static.

She hated how attractive he was. How easily he unsettled her.

"Think about it," he murmured. "One year. One lie. For a lifetime of saving lives."

Amelia left without answering.

But his offer clung to her like perfume.

***

The next day, Jane burst into the clinic lounge waving a letter. "Amy... it came."

Amelia took it with shaking hands. She opened the letter dreading the inevitable.

Clinic defunded. Effective immediately.

She sank into a chair. Silent. Shattered.

Jane knelt beside her, tears in her own eyes. "You did everything you could."

Amelia stared at the letter. Then at her phone.

Blackwell.

"I'll be back, Jane."

She forced back tears and scrolled through her contact list.

"I want to talk. In person," she said.

"Come to the Tower," Luke replied.