Aaliyah Moore stood in the narrow hallway outside the hospital billing office, her fingers clenched so tightly around the strap of her worn handbag that her knuckles burned. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee hung in the air, mixing with the low murmur of voices and the distant beep of medical machines. Every sound grated on her nerves.
She had been standing there for almost twenty minutes, staring at the same cream-colored wall, reading and rereading the same faded notice about payment policies without actually seeing the words.
Outstanding balance required before further treatment.
The sentence replayed in her head like a curse.
Her mother was lying three floors above her, attached to machines Aaliyah didn't fully understand, breathing because those machines allowed her to. And all the hospital cared about was money.
"Aaliyah Moore?"
She flinched at the sound of her name.
A woman in a navy-blue suit stood at the doorway, holding a tablet against her chest. Her face was polite but impersonal, the kind of expression Aaliyah had learned to fear over the past two weeks.
"Yes," Aaliyah said, stepping forward.
"Please come in."
The office was small and overly bright, with a glass desk that reflected everything—Aaliyah's anxious posture, the woman's calm efficiency, the stack of folders labeled with other people's names. Other people's problems.
The woman gestured for Aaliyah to sit.
"I'll be direct," she said, tapping the tablet. "Your mother's insurance has reached its limit. The remaining balance is substantial."
"How much?" Aaliyah asked, even though her chest already felt tight.
The woman named the figure.
For a moment, Aaliyah couldn't breathe.
"That—that can't be right," she whispered. "There has to be some kind of plan. An extension. Something."
"We do offer payment arrangements," the woman replied smoothly. "But treatment cannot continue without a significant deposit."
Aaliyah swallowed. "If she doesn't get treatment…"
The woman's pause was brief, but it was enough.
"We will do what we can," she said. "Within policy."
Aaliyah stood on shaking legs and left the office before the tears could fall. She walked blindly down the hallway, past nurses and visitors and strangers whose lives were not falling apart in slow motion.
She reached the stairwell and finally broke.
Her back slid down the cold metal door until she was sitting on the floor, her head bowed, shoulders trembling. She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound, but the sob still tore its way out of her chest.
This wasn't how her life was supposed to look.
At twenty-two, she should have been worrying about finishing her degree, about finding a decent job, about whether she could afford a tiny apartment with bad plumbing and good sunlight. Not about prison sentences, medical bills, and how long her mother's heart could keep fighting.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
She almost ignored it—until she saw the name on the screen.
Unknown Number
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
"Aaliyah Moore," a man said. His voice was calm, clipped, confident. "This is Victor Hale. I believe we need to talk."
Her spine straightened despite herself. "About what?"
"About your mother," he replied. "And the debt she inherited from her late partner."
Aaliyah's heart dropped. "How do you know about that?"
"I know a great many things," Victor said. "Including the fact that the charges were falsified. And that your mother is about to take the fall."
Aaliyah stood abruptly. "If this is some kind of sick joke—"
"It isn't," he interrupted. "I'm calling because there is a way out. But it doesn't come cheap."
She closed her eyes. Of course. Nothing ever did.
"What do you want?" she asked quietly.
"Not me," Victor corrected. "My associate."
A pause. Then—
"Rowan Blackwood would like to meet you."
The name landed like a blow.
Everyone knew Rowan Blackwood.
Tech mogul. Media darling. Ice-cold billionaire with a reputation for destroying competitors and never apologizing for it. A woman whose face appeared on magazine covers beside words like untouchable and ruthless.
"I don't understand," Aaliyah said. "Why would she want to meet me?"
"Because," Victor replied smoothly, "you are exactly what she needs right now."
"And what is that?"
"An answer," he said. "And a solution."
Silence stretched between them.
"I don't have money," Aaliyah said. "I don't have connections. I have nothing."
Victor chuckled softly. "That's not true. You have something very valuable. You just don't know it yet."
Aaliyah's stomach twisted. "What are you talking about?"
"Come to the Blackwood Tower tonight," he said. "Eight p.m. Penthouse level."
"And if I don't?"
Victor's voice hardened, just slightly. "Then your mother will be charged. Her treatment will stop. And whatever happens after that… will be out of my hands."
The line went dead.
Aaliyah stared at her phone long after the screen went dark.
Slowly, she slid back down against the stairwell door, her breath coming in shallow bursts. Fear coiled tightly in her chest, sharp and suffocating.
She didn't know what Rowan Blackwood wanted.
She didn't know what it would cost.
But she knew one thing with brutal clarity—
She had no choice.
Aaliyah didn't remember the bus ride home.
She only remembered sitting by the window, her forehead resting against the cool glass as the city slid past in streaks of light and shadow. People laughed at bus stops. Couples leaned into each other. Somewhere, music thumped from an open bar door. Life moved on as if nothing was wrong.
As if her world wasn't collapsing.
By the time she reached her apartment building, the sky had darkened into a dull, bruised blue. The hallway lights flickered weakly as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, each step heavier than the last. Her apartment door creaked when she pushed it open, the familiar sound offering no comfort tonight.
The place was small—one bedroom, peeling paint, furniture she'd collected secondhand over the years. Normally, it felt safe. Tonight, it felt empty.
She dropped her bag by the door and leaned back against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. Her phone lay in her hand like a ticking bomb.
Eight p.m. Blackwood Tower.
Aaliyah pressed her eyes shut.
Her mother's face flashed in her mind—pale, exhausted, trying to smile through the pain. Don't worry about me, she'd said earlier that day. I'm strong. I'll be fine.
Aaliyah knew better.
She pushed herself up and moved through the apartment on autopilot, changing clothes, washing her face, tying her curls back into a low knot. When she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her lips trembled slightly.
"You can do this," she whispered, gripping the edge of the sink. "Just listen. That's all. Listen."
By seven-thirty, she was standing on the sidewalk again, hailing a cab with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Blackwood Tower rose into the night sky like a blade of glass and steel, its upper floors disappearing into low-hanging clouds. The building dwarfed everything around it—older offices, shops, people reduced to ants at its base.
The cab pulled away, leaving Aaliyah alone at the entrance.
She hesitated.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to run back to her small, ordinary life. But her feet carried her forward anyway.
Inside, the lobby was impossibly vast. Marble floors gleamed under soft golden lighting. A massive abstract sculpture dominated the center of the space, all sharp angles and polished metal. Everything smelled faintly of citrus and money.
A man in a tailored black suit approached her.
"Aaliyah Moore?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, her voice barely steady.
"This way."
They didn't stop at the reception desk. They didn't wait. He led her straight to a private elevator at the far end of the lobby, swiping a card before stepping aside for her to enter.
The doors closed silently.
As the elevator climbed, her ears popped, her heart racing faster with every passing second. Numbers flashed by too quickly to count.
When the doors finally opened, she stepped into another world.
The penthouse was vast and quiet, all floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist furniture. The city sprawled beneath the glass, glittering and distant. It felt unreal, like a place meant to be observed, not lived in.
"Aaliyah Moore," a woman's voice said from behind her. "You're right on time."
Aaliyah turned.
Rowan Blackwood stood near the windows, one hand resting casually in her pocket, the other holding a glass of amber liquid. She was taller than Aaliyah had imagined, her posture relaxed but commanding. Dark hair fell neatly around sharp features, her gray eyes cool and assessing.
She looked exactly like the magazines.
Untouchable.
"You wanted to see me," Aaliyah said, forcing herself to stand straight.
Rowan studied her in silence, her gaze slow and deliberate, as if weighing her worth.
"Yes," Rowan said at last. "I did."
She set the glass down and took a step closer.
"You're here because you're desperate," Rowan continued calmly. "And because I need something that money alone can't buy."
Aaliyah swallowed. "If this is about money, I—"
"It isn't," Rowan interrupted.
She stopped directly in front of Aaliyah, close enough that Aaliyah could smell her perfume—clean, subtle, expensive.
"I'm offering you a solution," Rowan said. "But before we go any further, you need to understand one thing."
Aaliyah's pulse thundered in her ears.
"This arrangement," Rowan said quietly, "will change your life."
Aaliyah looked up into Rowan's cold, unreadable eyes and felt a chill run through her.
She had walked into this building to save her mother.
She had no idea what she was about to lose.
Rowan gestured toward the seating area with a subtle tilt of her head. "Sit."
It wasn't a request.
Aaliyah obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of a cream-colored sofa that probably cost more than everything she owned combined. Her back stayed straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap, as if good posture could protect her from whatever was coming.
Rowan remained standing.
She moved slowly, deliberately, circling the space like a predator that already knew its prey had nowhere to run. She picked up a tablet from the table and tapped the screen once before turning it toward Aaliyah.
"Your mother, Naomi Moore," Rowan said evenly. "Former financial officer. Wrongly accused of embezzlement tied to a shell company that doesn't exist."
Aaliyah's breath caught. "You—you know it was fake?"
"I know exactly who set her up," Rowan replied. "I also know the charges will be formalized within forty-eight hours unless someone intervenes."
Aaliyah's eyes burned. "Then help her," she said, her voice cracking despite her effort to stay composed. "You have the power. You have the money. Please."
Rowan studied her for a long moment.
"I will," she said.
Relief surged so fast Aaliyah nearly cried.
"But not for free."
The words sliced cleanly through that fragile hope.
Aaliyah's fingers tightened. "What do you want from me?"
Rowan sat across from her at last, crossing one leg over the other with infuriating ease. "I need stability," she said. "And control."
Aaliyah frowned. "I don't understand."
"My company is preparing for a major merger," Rowan explained. "Investors want reassurance. The board wants an image they can trust. And the media is circling, waiting for the smallest weakness."
She leaned forward slightly.
"I need a partner," Rowan said. "A public one."
Aaliyah stared at her. "You mean… a relationship?"
"A contract relationship," Rowan corrected. "Two years. You move in. You attend events. You appear devoted. In return, your mother walks free. Her medical bills are paid. Her name is cleared."
The room felt suddenly too small.
"You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend," Aaliyah whispered.
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
Rowan's gaze hardened. "Then nothing changes."
Aaliyah felt the weight of those words crush down on her chest.
She thought of the hospital room. The machines. Her mother's tired smile. Don't worry about me.
Her nails bit into her palms.
"What are the rules?" she asked quietly.
Rowan's lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
"You don't fall in love," she said. "You don't embarrass me. You do exactly what the contract says."
Aaliyah lifted her head slowly. "And you?"
Rowan's eyes flickered, just once.
"I don't owe you affection," she said. "Only protection."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unforgiving.
Aaliyah knew she was standing at the edge of something irreversible.
She took a shaky breath.
"Show me the contract," she said.
Rowan reached for the tablet and slid it across the table.
As Aaliyah's fingers closed around it, a single thought echoed painfully in her mind—
She was about to sign her freedom away to save the only person she loved.
And she didn't know if she would survive the cost.