It was late morning.
Outside, the world carried on as usual, but inside the hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and hopelessness, time seemed to have stopped for the Shepherd siblings.
Kelvin Shepherd stood silently beside the window, his eyes fixed on the bed across the room.
Gabriella.
His little sister.
She was only twenty-two.
Just a few months ago, she’d been practicing the piano until her fingers ached, laughing over late-night ramen, and counting down the days until she left for Seoul National University on a scholarship she had fought so hard to earn.
Music had always been her world.
Now she lay motionless beneath crisp white bedsheets, surrounded by wires and machines.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only proof she was still alive.
Her thin chest rose and fell like it was on a timer, each breath was borrowed from the fancy medical equipment keeping her alive.
“Mr.
Shepherd.” The doctor’s voice broke the quiet.
It was gentle.
Kelvin hated gentle voices.
Doctors only sounded like that when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.
“We’ve managed to stabilize her condition for the time being,” the doctor said carefully.
“But the swelling in her brain is still severe.
If we can’t perform the surgery within the next two months…” He hesitated before finishing.
“The damage will most likely become permanent.” Kelvin took in a deep breath and then slowly let it out.
“How much is it going to cost?” The doctor looked hasitant but he spoke anyways.
“The operation itself is covered by your insurance.
The problem is everything that comes afterward.
Intensive care, rehabilitation, medication, specialist consultations…” The doctor handed him a printed estimate.
Kelvin looked down.
The number at the bottom made Kelvin’s vision blur.
$393,000.
Almost four hundred thousand dollars.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the paper, hoping the numbers would somehow change if he looked long enough.
They didn’t.
His entire life savings amounted to barely three thousand dollars.
Three thousand.
He had a Fine Arts degree that no one seemed interested in hiring for.
His part-time shifts at the neighborhood convenience store covered rent and groceries, nothing more.
The little family they once had disappeared five years earlier when his father drank himself into the grave.
There was no inheritance.
No wealthy relatives waiting to help.
No miracle waiting around the corner.
Just him…
and a hospital bill so enormous it might as well have been impossible.
“Thank you, Doctor.” He walked out of the hospital and sat on a bench near the entrance.
The spring air was warm, but he felt cold all over.
He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen.
‘No new messages.’ He had called every relative he knew.
Every friend.
Everyone who had ever owed his family a favor.
The answer was always the same: ‘Sorry, Kelvin dear.
I wish I could help.’ His thumb scrolled absently through a mess of notifications.
Spam emails.
A reminder about his convenience store shift tomorrow.
A notification from a random job forum he had signed up for in desperation weeks ago.
‘New message: Confidential Matchmaking Inquiry – High Compensation’ He almost deleted it.
It looked like a scam.
But the subject line made him pause.
“Urgent: Fiancé(e) Wanted – $1,000,000 Guaranteed.” Kelvin’s hand trembled.
He opened the message.
It was short.
Professional.
A single paragraph asking for basic information: age, height, weight, and a recent photograph.
Gender: Female.
No face required—just a full-body shot.
The pay was $1,000,000 for a one-year contract.
The job description was vague: “Companionship and public appearances only.
No intimate contact required.” It was insane.
It was probably a trap.
It was the only number he had seen in weeks that came close to saving his sister.
Kelvin stared at his own reflection in the darkened phone screen.
He had always been told he had a pretty face.
Too pretty, his father used to say with disdain.
Soft jawline.
Long eyelashes.
Full lips.
His build was slender, almost delicate—he had never been able to gain weight no matter how much he ate.
He looked down at his own body.
Narrow shoulders.
Long legs.
If he shaved carefully, if he wore the right clothes…
‘No.
Don’t be ridiculous.’ But his thumb was moving.
Opening the camera.
Taking a photo of himself standing in the hospital hallway, wearing his oldest jeans and a plain white t-shirt.
He uploaded it without thinking.
Filled in the information.
Pressed send.
Three seconds later, the message showed as ‘Read.’ An hour later, his phone rang.
****** The meeting place was a private café in New York City, the kind of place Kelvin had never set foot in.
Everything was white marble and gold trim, and the coffee cost more than his weekly grocery budget.
The woman across from him was sharp.
Expensive suit.
Cold eyes.
She introduced herself only as Manager Victoria.
“Your application was flagged by our algorithm,” she said, sliding a tablet across the table.
On the screen was a man’s profile.
“This is your potential partner.
Alexander Morrowgate — one of the Co-CEOs of Morrowgate Holdings.” Kelvin’s breath caught.
He knew that name.
Everyone in America knew that name.
Morrowgate Holdings was a conglomerate, a corporate empire worth billions.
And the man in the photo looked like he had been carved from ice—sharp cheekbones, cold dark eyes, a mouth that seemed incapable of smiling.
“He needs a fiancée,” Manager Victoria continued.
“His grandfather’s will gives him one year to get married.
If he doesn’t, he forfeits the controlling shares of the company.” She paused before adding, “The old man had a very specific image in mind.
A woman who appears graceful, refined, and believable enough to pass as the perfect future Mrs.
Morrowgate.” Her expression turned flat.
“The problem is, every woman we’ve interviewed saw the arrangement as an opportunity.
They weren’t interested in playing the role—they wanted to make it permanent.
They all walked in dreaming of becoming Mrs.
Morrowgate for real.” She let out a quiet sigh.
“That’s exactly what Mr.
Alexander is trying to avoid.
The last thing he wants is another ambitious woman with a Cinderella complex, convinced this fake engagement is her ticket into his life.” Kelvin swallowed.
“And you think I…?” “You’re a man,” she said matter-of-factly.
“That makes you far less likely to fall in love with him—or start entertaining fantasies about becoming Mrs.
Morrowgate.” Her gaze swept over him, slow and calculating, assessing him the way a sculptor studied an uncut block of marble.
“The bone structure is there,” she murmured.
“With the right wardrobe, makeup, and a few adjustments, we can handle the rest.” Then her expression turned serious.
“There’s one condition.” She held his gaze without blinking.
“You’ll be moving into Mr.
Alexander’s residence for the duration of the contract.
If the public is going to believe you’re his fiancée, you can’t just appear beside him at events.
You have to live the part.” A faint smile tugged at her lips.
“A live-in fiancée is much more convincing.” “Live in?” “With the CEO.
Under one roof.” Her eyes narrowed.
“Is that a problem?” Kelvin thought of Gabriella’s hospital bed.
The beeping machines.
The number on the paper.
“No,” he said.
“No problem.”