CHAPTER 4

Alejandro's POV

I don't expect her to come back.

Not because the offer isn't tempting enough. Half a million dollars in treatment and a settlement large enough to change someone's life would tempt almost anyone.

I don't expect her to come back because she's Camila Reyes.

The woman who looked me in the eye and compared my proposal to a psychological disorder.

The woman who walked out of my office even after learning her mother might not have sixty days left.

Stubborn doesn't begin to cover it which is why I find myself looking up from my laptop the second my assistant announces her arrival.

"Ms. Reyes is here."

A strange feeling settles in my chest before I can stop it.

Relief, I immediately hate it. "Send her in."

A moment later, the door opens.

Camila walks into my office carrying the same determination she had the last time I saw her, but today there's something else beneath it. The dark circles under her eyes are deeper, and the exhaustion she tries so hard to hide is impossible to miss.

The hospital.

Her mother.

The impossible bill.

Life is clearly winning the fight.

The realization should make this negotiation easier. Instead, it makes me uncomfortable. 

She sits into the chair across from my desk and places a thick folder between us. "You look disappointed," she says, narrowing her eyes at me.

I lean back slightly, studying her. "I was expecting you to tell me to go to hell."

A faint smile touches her lips before she catches herself. "That can still be arranged."

There it is.

The fire my grandfather keeps talking about. I shouldn't enjoy it yet somehow I do. "Then why are you here?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the folder, and for the briefest moment, I see something raw flicker across her face before she forces it away.

"My mother's treatment can't wait." The words are simple, but the pain behind them isn't.

I nod once because pretending not to understand would be insulting. "No."

Silence settles between us for a few seconds before she pushes the folder toward me.

"I have conditions."

The fact that she says it like she's the billionaire in this room almost makes me laugh. "You haven't signed anything yet, and you're already making demands?"

"I'm a nurse, not an idiot," she replies, folding her arms across her chest. "If I'm about to make the worst decision of my life, I'd at least like some control over it."

The honesty catches me off guard.

Most people would try to sound confident. Camila sounds terrified and she's still here.

I open the folder. Within seconds, I realize she's marked up nearly every section of the contract.

My lawyers are going to have a collective heart attack. "You edited it."

"I improved it."

The confidence in her voice makes me glance up. She's completely serious.

I shake my head and continue reading. "You crossed out the confidentiality clause."

"It was ridiculous."

"It was standard."

"It basically said I couldn't complain if your family treated me like garbage."

I look up again, she isn't wrong. Unfortunately. "Fair point."

Her eyebrows lift slightly, as if she expected an argument. I continue reading then stop, then read the same section again. 

"You added financial penalties."

"I did."

"For me."

"You noticed."

I stare at her and she stares back. Neither of us looks away.

It's ridiculous, domehow we're negotiating a fake marriage contract like two hostile governments discussing a peace treaty.

"You want compensation if I break the agreement."

"I want compensation if you make my life miserable."

"Those aren't necessarily the same thing."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "That answer doesn't inspire confidence."

For some reason, I laugh. Not a polite business smile, not amusement manufactured for investors.

A real laugh.

The sound surprises both of us and Camila blinks.

I clear my throat immediately. "Continue."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You laughed."

"No, I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The accusation in her expression is almost enough to make me laugh again.

"Treatment first," she says, becoming serious again. "Before anything else happens, I want confirmation that my mother's care is being paid for."

The change in her voice is immediate. Everything becomes sharper and more focused.

This is why she's here. Not money, not me.

Her mother.

I understand that, maybe more than she realizes. "You'll have it."

She studies my face carefully, and for the first time since entering my office, I get the feeling she's looking for something other than reasons to hate me. "What if you change your mind?" she asks quietly.

I don't answer immediately because the question deserves more than a casual response. "What if I don't?"

Her gaze doesn't leave mine. The determination there is impressive, so is the fear.

"I need certainty."

The words hang between us. Not because she's demanding money but because she's demanding trust. And trust is a currency I stopped dealing in years ago.

"You'll receive written confirmation today," I tell her, holding her gaze. "The hospital will be instructed to send every invoice directly to my office, and every specialist your mother needs will be approved immediately."

She stares at me for several seconds then several more as if waiting for the catch.

There isn't one. The realization clearly unsettles her. Good, she's not the only one feeling uncomfortable.

"What kind of person are you?" she asks suddenly.

The question catches me completely off guard. I lean back in my chair. "That's a strange thing to ask."

"You own a pharmaceutical company, offered a complete stranger a fake marriage, and somehow managed to sound more reasonable than half the doctors I've spoken to this week. I'd say strange questions are justified."

I should ignore it. Instead, I hear myself asking, "And what conclusion have you reached?"

She hesitates. Not because she doesn't have an answer but because she's deciding whether to say it. "I think you're more complicated than I wanted you to be."

The words hit harder than they should because she's right.

Because life would be easier if I were simply the villain she wants me to be. Before I can respond, she reaches for the pen sitting beside the contract.

The movement immediately draws my attention.

This is it.

The decision.

The point of no return.

Her fingers tighten around the pen as she stares down at the final page, and for the first time since she walked into my office, the confidence slips.

Not much, just enough for me to see how terrified she is. I understand that feeling too, more than she knows. "You can still walk away," I hear myself say.

The words surprise both of us and Camila looks up so quickly that I almost regret speaking. "What?"

"If you're waiting for someone to force your hand, I'm not going to do it."

Her expression softens slightly. Not with affection but with understanding. The kind shared between two people who know what it feels like to lose something important.

Then she looks back down at the contract.

A long silence follows.

When she finally signs her name, it happens in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just a single signature that changes everything.

The sound of the pen leaving the paper feels louder than it should.

For several seconds, neither of us speaks.

Camila stares at her name as though she's trying to convince herself it belongs there, maybe she is because this isn't just a contract anymore.

It's a choice.

A sacrifice.

A line she can't uncross.

Finally, she sets the pen down and releases a slow breath. "Tell me something," she says, looking up at me with tired eyes. "Does this ever start feeling less insane?"

I almost smile. "No." The answer earns a short laugh from her, though there's no real amusement in it.

"Good," she says, shaking her head. "I was worried I was the only one having that reaction."

I close the contract and stand. "It's done."

She follows my movement with her eyes, and I can practically see the question forming before she asks it. "What happens now?"

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her.

Then I remember who my grandfather is.

The estate review.

The family dinners.

The performance we're about to begin. And I realize she's still underestimating how much her life just changed.

I slide the signed contract into the folder before meeting her gaze. "Good," I say, unable to stop the faint satisfaction in my voice. "You move into my house tomorrow."