The Unwanted Healer's Thirty-Day Fake Marriage

A few days later, the oppressive, humid heat of the afternoon sun baked the glass roof of the greenhouse until the air inside shimmered. Cynthia stood at the scarred wooden worktable, her hands moving in a steady, rhythmic rhythm as she crushed dried, woody roots with a heavy stone pestle. A thin, glistening layer of sweat coated her forehead, plastering stray dark hairs to her temples and the nape of her neck. The bitter, earthy, medicinal smell of the crushed herbs hung thick in the damp, still air, coating her tongue. Suddenly, the deep, rumbling growl of heavy diesel engines shattered the quiet of the estate like a rock through a stained-glass window. Cynthia's hands paused. The pestle hovered in mid-air, dripping dark liquid. The noise was coming from next door—from the massive, ultra-luxurious Hamptons estate that had sat empty and silent for over six months, its windows dark, its gates chained. She wiped her stained hands on her apron, leaving dark smears on the canvas, and pushed open the greenhouse door. The blast of hot, humid air hit her face as she crossed the sun-scorched lawn, her sneakers leaving faint prints in the parched grass. The two properties were separated by a towering, twelve-foot hedge of thick, dark green leaves—an impenetrable wall of foliage. Cynthia approached the boundary and carefully, silently parted the dense leaves with her fingers, creating a narrow gap just wide enough to peer through. On the other side, a small fleet of moving trucks was parked haphazardly in the sweeping circular driveway. Men in matching gray uniforms swarmed like ants, carefully unloading massive pieces of custom Italian furniture wrapped in padded blankets. A gleaming black grand piano was being wheeled up a ramp. Crystal chandeliers in protective crates. Boxes upon boxes of God-knows-what. A sleek black Maybach with dark-tinted windows glided up the long driveway, coming to a smooth, silent stop beside the ornate marble fountain—now flowing with water for the first time in months. The driver's door opened. Leo got out and opened the rear passenger door. Dominic stepped out into the blistering sunlight. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit that probably cost more than Cynthia's entire education, his white shirt crisp and open at the collar. But his face was a thunderstorm. The dark, oppressive, seething aura radiating from him was so intense it seemed to physically darken the air around him. His jaw was clenched. His shoulders were rigid. His eyes blazed with barely controlled fury. Leo hurried around the car, clutching a tablet to his chest like a shield, his face pale and sweating. "Sir," he stammered, loud enough for Cynthia to hear through the hedge, "the matriarch paid three times the market value. In cash. Wired this morning. The deed is already transferred to your name. She said... she said if you don't live here for the next thirty days to build a relationship with your fiancée, she will go on a hunger strike. A public one. With press coverage." Dominic grabbed his silk tie and yanked it loose with a violent, strangling motion, the fabric hissing against his collar. He ripped the top button of his shirt open, his chest heaving with suppressed, volcanic rage. Trapped. He was trapped by an eighty-year-old woman's emotional blackmail. He turned his head in frustration, his dark eyes scanning the property line like he was looking for something to destroy. Through the small gap in the hedge, his eyes locked directly onto Cynthia's. The air between them seemed to crackle and hiss with invisible static electricity. Cynthia's eyes flew wide in genuine shock. Her stomach performed a slow, nauseating, uncomfortable flip. He lives here now? Next door? Thirty days of this? Dominic's shock lasted half a second before it curdled into absolute, venomous disgust. He took in her stained apron, the sweat glistening on her face, the way she was hunched over and spying on him through the bushes like a common voyeur. He marched across the freshly trimmed grass, his long legs eating up the distance, and stopped directly on the other side of the hedge. He towered over her even through the barrier, his shadow falling across her face. His lip curled into a sneer so sharp it could have cut glass. "You really don't waste any time, do you?" Dominic snarled, his voice dripping with contempt so thick it was practically viscous. "What did you do—call my grandmother the second I left? Cry into the phone about how much you missed me? Tell her you couldn't bear to be apart from your precious fiancé?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "Is this your pathetic, desperate attempt to climb into my bed by moving me next door?" Cynthia let the branches fall back into place, but he was so close she could still see the furious, pulsing vein in his neck through the leaves. The sheer, staggering audacity of his accusation—the ego required to believe she would orchestrate all of this just to get near him—left her momentarily, genuinely speechless. She rolled her eyes so hard they ached in their sockets. "You have a severe, clinical persecution complex," she shot back, her voice dripping with acidic sarcasm. "I would rather sleep in a dumpster behind a fish market than share a zip code with you. This is my personal nightmare." She made a dramatic show of raising her hand and waving the air in front of her nose, her face twisting into an expression of exaggerated disgust. "The air over here is already starting to smell like arrogant billionaire. It's polluting my herbs. I'm going to have to throw out the whole batch." Dominic's fists clenched at his sides. His knuckles popped—one, two, three—loud and sharp in the quiet afternoon air. He looked like he wanted to rip the entire hedge out of the ground with his bare hands, roots and all. Leo stood frozen in the background, sweating so profusely his shirt was soaked through, praying to every god he could name that his boss wouldn't commit a violent felony on the front lawn of his new house. Cynthia didn't give him a chance to respond. She turned her back on him with deliberate, insulting casualness and marched straight back to the greenhouse. The glass door slammed shut behind her with a sharp, final crack. Dominic stared at the empty space where she had stood, his chest heaving, his breath ragged. The paranoid voices in his skull whispered their dark, poisonous warnings. She's lying. She planned this. She's playing you. He spun around to face Leo, his eyes cold and flat and utterly merciless. "Install military-grade infrared cameras along this entire perimeter. Tonight. Motion sensors. Heat signatures. If that woman so much as sets one toe onto my property, I want to know about it in real time." Leo gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, sir. Immediately, sir." The war had officially relocated to the suburbs. And the opening salvo had just been fired.