Fake Marriage To The Undercover Boss

The heavy door of the sedan clicked shut, sealing them in a vault of silence. The car glided away from the curb. Emaline sat rigid against the soft leather. Her knuckles were bone-white as she gripped her phone. Her eyes were glued to the blank screen, praying for another message from Leo. Cullen sat beside her. "Where to?" Cullen asked quietly, his eyes studying her pale face in the dim light. Emaline gave him her address, her voice barely a whisper that cracked on the street name. He relayed it to the driver, and the car pulled silently into traffic. He reached into the small compartment between the seats and pulled out a chilled bottle of water. He held it out to her. Emaline did not take it. She could not breathe. Her chest felt tight, wrapped in iron bands that squeezed harder with every passing second. She frantically dialed her family doctor's number. It rang ten times before going to voicemail. She hung up and dialed the hospital's emergency line. A cheerful, automated voice told her she was on hold. Vivaldi's Spring played through the speaker, mocking her panic. Emaline slammed the phone down onto the leather seat. The dull thud echoed in the quiet cabin. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her shoulders hitched. The dam broke. A ragged sob tore out of her throat. Her entire body shook as months of suppressed terror, exhaustion, and financial ruin poured out of her in violent waves. Tears flooded down her face, slipping through her fingers and dripping onto her cheap blazer. Cullen watched her. His jaw tightened. He reached forward and pressed a button on the console. The soft music from the speakers died. He shifted closer to her, his presence a wall against the driver's quiet presence, and raised his hand, hovering it over her back for a fraction of a second, before resting his palm firmly on her shaking shoulder. Emaline flinched at the contact. But the heat radiating from his hand seeped through her jacket. It was solid. It was grounding. Instead of pulling away, her body betrayed her. She slumped sideways, leaning into the pressure of his hand. She needed an anchor, and he was the only thing in the car that was not spinning. Cullen did not pull her into a hug, but his thumb began to stroke a slow, rhythmic line across her shoulder blade. "Breathe," Cullen said. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet car. "He is going to be alright." Emaline shook her head frantically. "You do not understand," she choked out, her voice broken and wet. "He gave up. He left the hospital to save money. He is doing this for me and Leo." She could not stop talking. The words spilled out like blood from an open wound. She told him about the failing lungs. She told him about the final notices from the bank. She told him about Leo's deafness and how her father felt he was stealing their future. Cullen listened. He did not interrupt. His thumb kept up its steady, calming motion on her shoulder. Emaline finally ran out of breath. She lifted her head and looked at him. The dim ambient lighting of the car cast sharp shadows across his face. He looked dangerous, yet completely safe. "That proposal," Emaline whispered, her voice hoarse. "Were you serious?" Cullen met her tear-filled eyes. He did not blink. "Every single word," Cullen said. Emaline bit her lower lip. Her teeth sank into the soft flesh. "I need time to think." "Take it," Cullen said smoothly. "But time is the one thing we usually run out of." The sedan rolled over the Brooklyn Bridge. The glittering skyline of Manhattan reflected in the tinted windows, sliding across Emaline's wet cheeks. The city looked beautiful and entirely out of reach. Cullen reached inside his coat. He pulled out a slim leather money clip. He slid a thick, heavy stack of hundred-dollar bills from it. He placed the cash on the empty space of the seat between them. The crisp green paper seemed to mock the worn fabric of her cheap blazer. Emaline stared at the pile of money. She knew what that kind of cash meant to someone in her position. It was a lifeline. It was more money than she had seen in months of exhausting, backbreaking shifts. "What is this?" she asked, shrinking back against the door. "I do not want your charity." "It is not charity," Cullen said. His tone left no room for argument. "It is an advance. You need cash tonight for your father. Consider it the first installment of our agreement." She shook her head violently. "I have not agreed to anything. I cannot take this." "Take it," Cullen commanded softly. "If you say no tomorrow, you can hand it back to me. This has nothing to do with the contract. This is just one human helping another." Emaline reached out. Her trembling fingers brushed against the crisp edges of the bills. It felt like grabbing a live wire, the texture of the currency sending a shock of shame and desperate relief through her veins. The car slowed to a halt. Emaline looked out the window. They were parked in front of her crumbling brick apartment building in Brooklyn. The contrast between the clean, quiet car and the graffiti-covered door was sickening. She grabbed the stack of cash. She shoved it into her purse. She pushed the heavy car door open and scrambled out into the cold air. "Thank you," she whispered into the dark, before sprinting up the concrete steps and disappearing into the stairwell. Cullen stayed in the car. He watched the empty doorway for a long time.