Marrying The Comatose Billionaire For Two Million

The notification lit up Ava Kowalski's phone screen, a beacon in the biting November wind. A single delivery, Upper East Side, with a tip that was more than she usually made in three hours. A knot of tension in her shoulders loosened.

She nudged her e-bike forward, weaving through the yellow cabs and black cars choking the Manhattan-bound traffic. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but the number on the screen was a small, warm fire in her gut. This one order would cover the new medication for her grandmother. Another few like this, and maybe, just maybe, she could start thinking about the co-pay for the specialist.

The address led her to a limestone behemoth of a building, its brass-handled doors gleaming under a canopy. The doorman, draped in a coat that probably cost more than her bike, eyed her blue delivery bag with a practiced, dismissive glance. It was a look she knew well. It said, you don't belong here.

She ignored the tightening in her stomach and held up her phone. "Delivery for Carlisle."

He grunted and waved her in. The elevator was lined with dark, polished wood and plush red carpet that muffled the sound of her worn-out sneakers. Riding up to the penthouse, she pulled out her phone again, her thumb hovering over Spencer's name. Just got a delivery near you. Thinking of you. She erased it. He was probably buried in textbooks at the Columbia library. No need to bother him. Still, the thought of being so close to his world, a world of penthouses and doormen, sent a small, silly thrill through her.

The elevator doors opened onto a private landing. Music pulsed from behind the apartment door, along with a wave of laughter. The door itself was slightly ajar.

She knocked. The bass from the music vibrated through the wood, but no one answered. She knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. The app timer was ticking down. A bad rating could get her suspended.

Hesitantly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. "Hello? Delivery?"

Her plan was simple: leave the bag on the console table just inside the door, snap a picture, and go. But a voice, sharp and familiar, cut through the noise.

"Spencer, darling, are you ever going to get rid of that little charity case from Queens?"

Ava froze. The voice belonged to Blair Sterling, a girl whose glossy photo was a permanent fixture in the city's gossip columns. The heavy paper bag in her hand suddenly felt like it was filled with rocks.

Then came the sound that made her blood run cold. Spencer's laugh. It wasn't his warm, private laugh, the one he used with her. This was light, careless, and cruel.

"Patience, Blair. It was just a bet. Carter can tell you."

Another voice, Carter Knight's, chimed in, slurred with alcohol. "A hundred bucks said he couldn't get the 'pure-hearted' delivery girl to fall for him in under a month. You won, man. You won."

The world tilted. The air in her lungs turned to ice. Every shared coffee, every late-night talk, every gentle kiss-a transaction. A game. A joke. The blood rushed to her head, a roaring sound that drowned out the music.

Blair's voice dripped with venom. "You actually kissed her? God, Spencer, who knows what kind of grease is under those fingernails."

A chorus of laughter erupted, each sound a physical blow. Ava looked down at her own hands, gripping the bag. The nails were clean, but the skin was chapped from the cold and the constant work. Shame, hot and suffocating, washed over her. She remembered him holding these hands, telling her he loved that she wasn't afraid of hard work. A lie. It was all a lie.

So, nothing was real?

She didn't move. She couldn't. She just stood in the sliver of shadow by the door, listening as Spencer, her Spencer, began to mimic her. He put on a serious, earnest voice, repeating something she'd told him in confidence about her dreams of finishing nursing school.

Blair shrieked with laughter, a sound like breaking glass. And in that moment, the heartbreak inside Ava curdled into something hard and cold. The weight in her hands no longer felt like rocks. It felt like a weapon.