The Unwanted Healer's Thirty-Day Fake Marriage

Cynthia pushed open the heavy, carved wooden doors of the Bowers estate in Long Island, her shoulder aching from the effort. The hinges groaned in protest. The air inside hit her face like a damp cloth—stagnant, thick, heavy with the cloying smell of old money and the sweet, sickly undertone of impending death. Brenda, a maid in a starched black uniform with a permanently pinched expression, was listlessly dragging a feather duster across a massive porcelain vase in the grand foyer. She glanced up as Cynthia walked in, took in the worn sneakers and the canvas tote bag, and rolled her eyes with theatrical disdain. She jerked a lazy, dismissive thumb toward the grand staircase without breaking her dusting rhythm. Cynthia ignored the blatant disrespect the way she ignored most things in this house—by walking right past it. She climbed the sweeping staircase, her shoes sinking into the thick Persian runner, swallowing every footstep. At the top of the landing, she pushed open the door to her uncle Almon's bedroom. The stench of antiseptic and stale sickness hit her like a wall. Almon lay in the center of a massive four-poster bed, swallowed by Egyptian cotton sheets. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his gaunt, sunken face, fogging and clearing with each shallow breath. The skin stretched over his cheekbones was thin as parchment, translucent, spider-webbed with broken capillaries. He slowly lifted a frail, trembling hand toward her, the bones of his wrist looking like they might snap under the weight of the gesture. "Cynthia..." His voice was a wet, rattling wheeze, barely audible through the plastic mask. Each word cost him. "You have to... marry well. It's the only way... you survive in this house. This family... will eat you alive." A sharp, hot ache bloomed in the center of Cynthia's chest, spreading outward like cracks in ice. She stepped forward, her own hands steady as she grasped his cold, bony fingers in both of hers. His skin felt like chilled paper. "Don't worry about me, Uncle Almon," she said, her voice soft but unyielding. "I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere." The bedroom door clicked open behind her. Inger, her aunt, strolled into the room like she was making an entrance at a gala. She balanced a delicate porcelain teacup on a matching saucer, her posture so rigid it looked painful. Her hair was lacquered into an immovable helmet. She lifted a silk handkerchief to her eyes with the delicate, trembling gesture of a professional mourner, dabbing at skin that was perfectly, conspicuously dry. The performance was grotesque in its precision. Inger stepped up to the bed and, without a word of greeting or comfort, tossed a glossy manila folder onto the mattress beside Cynthia's hand. It landed with a slap. "It's settled," Inger announced, her voice dripping with saccharine, fake sweetness. "You will marry Julian Astor. The contracts are drawn up. The date is set." Cynthia didn't touch the folder. Her gaze dropped to the photo paperclipped to the cover—a soft-faced young man with vacant eyes and a slack, perpetually bewildered smile. She looked back up at Inger, her expression flat and cold as marble. "Julian Astor has the mental capacity of a six-year-old," Cynthia said, each word clipped and deliberate. "This isn't a marriage, Inger. You're selling me. You're dressing up human trafficking in a white veil and calling it a wedding." Inger's fake, cloying smile vanished like a light switching off. Her face hardened into its natural state—a mask of pure, unvarnished cruelty. The lines around her mouth deepened into grooves of spite. "The Bowers family does not feed useless mouths," Inger hissed, her cultured veneer peeling away. "You are a high school dropout from the backwoods of Appalachia. You have no education, no connections, no breeding, and no prospects. You bring absolutely nothing to this table except the ability to follow orders. So you will follow them." Cynthia stood up slowly, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Her voice dropped to a dangerous register. "I won't do it." "Then I will pull the plug." Cynthia froze. Every muscle in her body locked solid. The blood in her veins turned to ice water, freezing in place. "Almon's intensive care costs thousands of dollars a day," Inger continued, lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a slow, leisurely sip. The porcelain clinked against her teeth. "If you refuse the Astor boy, I will cut off the funding tomorrow morning. I will sign the papers myself. Let's see how long he breathes without those machines keeping his lungs pumping." The heart monitor beside the bed began to shriek, the steady beeps accelerating into a frantic, panicked rhythm. Almon's chest heaved, his frail body seizing with terror, his wide, wet eyes darting between the two women. Cynthia immediately turned away from Inger. She placed her hand flat on her uncle's chest, pressing down with gentle, steady pressure, feeling the panicked flutter of his heart beneath her palm. "Breathe," she murmured, her voice dropping to a soothing cadence. "Slow. With me. In... and out." Only when his breathing steadied did she turn her head. She fixed Inger with a stare so venomous, so utterly devoid of fear or submission, that it could have dropped a lesser woman to her knees. Her fingernails dug into her own palms with enough pressure to draw blood. She felt the sharp sting, welcomed it. "Give me three days," Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "Three days to think about it." Inger's lips curled into a triumphant sneer. She turned on her heel, the hem of her designer skirt swishing against the hardwood. "Three days. Not a minute more." She swept out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her—a deliberate insult. Cynthia stared at the empty doorway, trapped in a nightmare with no exit. Miles away, in the soaring glass-and-steel spire of the Church Group headquarters in Manhattan, Dominic sat behind a massive, obsidian-black mahogany desk. The city sprawled beneath him through floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering ant farm of tiny cars and distant lights. He rolled the broken silver bracelet between his long, elegant fingers, turning it over and over. The thin chain caught the harsh white office light and threw it back in sharp, liquid flashes. His dark eyes tracked the movement with unblinking, obsessive focus. The heavy double doors of his office banged open without a knock. Eleonora, his grandmother, marched in like a general storming a fortress. Her custom Chanel heels clicked furiously against the polished hardwood floor—a sound that made lesser men flinch. She wore a pristine ivory suit and a triple strand of pearls, and her face was set in lines of absolute, imperial fury. Leo followed close behind her, his face a mask of helpless apology. His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides. No one—no one—stopped the matriarch of the Church family when she was on the warpath. Eleonora slammed a thick stack of glossy dossiers onto Dominic's desk with enough force to rattle the bronze nameplate. The folders burst open on impact, sending photographs of wealthy, pedigreed socialites sliding across the polished wood in a fan of practiced smiles and expensive haircuts. "You do nothing but work!" Eleonora shouted, her voice echoing through the cavernous corner office. She jabbed a bony, diamond-laden finger at the scattered photos. "Pick one. Today. You are getting engaged. I refuse to die without a great-grandchild." Dominic didn't even glance at the photographs. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the sharp plane of his cheek. "I am not participating in a meaningless corporate breeding program, Grandmother. Find another hobby." Eleonora's hands shook with theatrical, operatic rage. "If you don't pick a wife—a suitable, acceptable wife from a proper family—I will freeze every private trust fund in your name by midnight tonight. Every last one." Dominic leaned back in his leather chair with infuriating calm, his expression entirely deadpan. "Do it. I can live on my salary. I have before." Her threat deflected like a stone skipping off armor, Eleonora's composure shattered. She gasped loudly—a dramatic, gulping inhale—and clutched at the expensive silk fabric over her chest with both hands. Her face contorted in what might have been agony or might have been an award-worthy performance. She collapsed backward onto the leather sofa, her body going limp. "Oh, my heart! You are killing me, Dominic! Your own grandmother! You want me dead and buried!" Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, pressing hard. A sharp, pulsing headache bloomed behind his eyes. He knew this performance. He had seen it a hundred times. He hated it with every fiber of his being. But her actual heart condition—the very real, very documented, very dangerous arrhythmia—made it impossible to completely ignore. One of these days, the act might not be an act. To shut down the circus before it escalated further, Dominic tossed the silver bracelet onto the center of the desk. It landed with a soft, fragile clink, the broken chain coiling on itself like a sleeping snake. "I will only marry the woman who owns this," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a cold, final register that left no room for negotiation. Eleonora stopped wailing instantly. The transformation was almost comical. She sat bolt upright on the sofa, her eyes snapping to the bracelet with the laser focus of a hawk spotting prey. She snatched it off the desk with startling speed, holding it up to the light, turning it between her thin, beringed fingers. Her sharp old eyes examined every link, every detail, every mark. Dominic looked past her, his gaze cutting to his bodyguard. "Leo. You have three days to find the buyer of this piece. It's limited edition, custom artisan. Tear every jewelry district in this city apart if you have to. I want a name." Leo nodded so sharply his neck cracked, and he practically sprinted out of the office. The net was cast.