Sandra's POV
"Why is this happening to me?" I whispered, my voice barely audible as I slowly sat up, resting my back against the soft pillow behind me. My body ached, but the confusion and dread weighed heavier than any physical pain.
I had lost consciousness twice already. Was it really that serious? Will I recover? Questions gnawed at my mind. I pulled myself up from the bed. The room was empty. I assumed the nurse was attending to someone else.
I limped to the door and turned the handle slowly. It creaked, betraying my presence even though I moved like a shadow. I peered out. The hallway was quiet and Maria's chair was empty.
Where had she gone?
Was she tired of waiting? Had she left me?
I wrapped my arms around myself. My thoughts were spiraling when the clinic's front door burst open with a bang.
Maria.
She stormed in, wild-eyed and gasping, her chest rising and falling with panicked breaths. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat. She looked like she'd run through a storm—or something far worse.
"Get inside!" she yelled, voice broken and frantic, her eyes darting left and right like prey in a predator's gaze.
I didn't hesitate. Something in her voice made obedience instinctive. I retreated into the room. She followed, slamming the door shut and locking it behind her.
"What's going on?" I asked, my voice shaky but low, as I searched her panicked expression.
"It's... Alex." Her words cracked, like a dam barely holding back terror.
Alex.
The name alone sent a chill slicing through me.
"He's chasing you?" I asked, disbelief clinging to every syllable.
"No... He sent his guard, Tate. After me." She was gasping, clutching her chest, like the air had turned to fire in her lungs.
"Why would he do that?" I pressed, my tone sharp, eyebrows narrowing.
"I'll explain... Just—get me some water," she managed between coughs.
I rushed to the small table by the bed and poured her a glass from the half-empty bottle. She took it with trembling hands and sipped.
"I went—"
But before she could continue, a cold, commanding voice pierced through the door.
"Good morning, Miss Sandra."
I froze. The voice was unmistakable.
Alex.
I wasn't just stunned by his sudden appearance—I was alarmed by how he addressed me. Miss Sandra? That wasn't normal. It was too formal. Too deliberate. I felt my heartbeat thunder in my chest. Something was wrong.
"It's Alex Don. I want to see you." His voice was louder now, echoing through the clinic's hallway.
I stared at Maria, whose eyes widened in terror. She jolted, nearly knocking into me.
"Hide! Hide! Hide!" she shrieked, her panic swelling, echoing off the sterile walls.
But I didn't move. I don't know where the strength came from—perhaps it was adrenaline or instinct—but I stood firm. The door was locked. He couldn't just—
"Is that why you were chasing Maria?" I asked aloud, daring him to respond.
There was a pause.
Then, his reply came, silky and falsely innocent.
"Chasing? I merely followed her."
Maria gave me a strange look—confusion mixed with disbelief. Alex didn't sound like himself. He sounded… too calm. Too rehearsed.
"What do you want?" I called out, standing closer to the door.
"I want to converse with you, Miss Sandra," he replied, his voice calm, almost gentle.
I hesitated, then slowly opened the door, just a crack. He stood there in a tailored black suit, a leather folder in his hand.
"I'm here now," I said, trying to steady my voice.
"May I come in?" he asked, tone soft.
Before I could answer, he stepped forward and took the door gently from me—like he owned the space. Like he owned me.
"Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the wooden chair beside the bed. It felt surreal. He was the one acting like the host. I folded my arms and sat silently.
He turned to Maria.
"Miss Maria, if you don't mind…"
"I'm not leaving her," she shot back. Her tone was low but protective.
"It's fine," I said quietly. I didn't want this. But I needed to know what he wanted.
Maria stared at me, hesitating.
"Are you sure?"
I nodded, words caught in my throat. She gave me a final glance, then stepped out.
Alex turned to me with a calculated smile.
"I've heard you're unwell—and unable to afford treatment."
The words hit like a slap. Cold. Sharp.
"How do you…."
"Maria," he interjected smoothly. "We spoke this morning. But I didn't come here for sympathy. I came for business."
Business?
I blinked. It made no sense. What business could a billionaire possibly have with me?
And then, he dropped the bomb.
"I want you to be my wife."
My breath caught.
"What?" I barely managed to say, thinking I'd misheard.
"Be my wife," he repeated, calm but unwavering. "You need money. I need a wife. We both get what we wanted."
I laughed. Bitter and sharp.
"You're joking."
He leaned in slightly.
"I need a wife to claim my inheritance. You need treatment and financial security. We could help each other."
The room fell silent, but inside me, a thousand thoughts collided.
Marriage.
Something I had promised myself to avoid for at least a decade.
Now—here it was—thrust upon me like an ultimatum from fate itself. But freedom from sickness. From poverty. From struggle. All just one signature away.
"Do you agree to be my wife?" he asked, lifting a document from his folder.
I hesitated. Then nodded.
"Good," he said with the ghost of a smile.
It was the first time I'd seen him smile.
"Sign here," he instructed, handing me the document and a pen.
I stared at the document. The text blurred in front of my tired eyes. It was dense, legal, and unreadable in my condition. At the top, I caught the title:
"Marriage Contract Agreement Between Mr. Alex Don and Miss Sandra Wilson."
Then I read the line at the bottom:
"I, Sandra Wilson, fully read and agree to the contents of this contract."
There was a blank space beneath it.
I looked up at him one last time.
Then, I signed.