The CEO's Fake Wife And Secret Triplets

The pen felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Seraphina's fingers shook so badly the tip hovered an inch above the dotted line, unable to commit.

Donovan watched her struggle. For a moment, the icy veneer cracked. "My father's cancer is aggressive," he said, his voice losing some of its sharp edges. "The board is trying to force a vote to remove him as chairman before he dies. They think a bachelor heir is a liability. They want stability."

He looked at the kids, then back at her. "I need this to look real. I need him to die happy."

It made sense. It was logical. But it didn't make the shame burn any less in Seraphina's chest.

"Why me?" she asked, dropping her hand away from the paper. "There are a thousand women in this city who would play this part for free. Why a stranger with three kids?"

"Because my father likes them," Donovan said flatly. "And you... you look like you won't cause trouble. You're desperate."

The word 'desperate' slapped her across the face. The tiny spark of warmth she had felt from his explanation vanished. She stood up, pulling the kids close. "I'm sorry. We can't do this. We'll find another way."

She turned to leave.

The memory of the unopened email from Dr. Aris flashed in her mind. Urgent Update. She could feel the weight of those words, the unspoken cost they represented. Fiona had been so tired lately, her small face paler than usual. The image of her daughter, struggling for breath after a simple walk to the park, burned behind Seraphina's eyes. Two hundred thousand for the initial round of a new therapy, the doctor had estimated last month. A number so impossible it felt like a joke. And that was just the beginning.

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. The cold metal felt like the bars of a cage closing around her.

Fiona ran to her, grabbing her leg. "Mommy, what's wrong? Are we going home?"

Seraphina looked down at her daughter-her fragile, beautiful daughter who was running out of time. The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a surrender.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing her cheap mascara. She turned around. She walked back to the coffee table, every step feeling like she was walking through wet concrete. She picked up the pen.

"I'll sign," she said, her voice raw and hollow. "But I have a condition."

Donovan watched her, his expression unreadable. "Name it."

"Fifty thousand dollars. Upfront. Tonight." She swallowed the bile in her throat. "For Fiona's medical bills."

Donovan didn't blink. He looked at Alex. "Transfer it. Now."

Alex stepped out. Within three minutes, Seraphina's phone buzzed with an alert from her bank. The deposit was there. Fifty thousand dollars. Fiona's lifeline, bought with her mother's dignity.

Seraphina pressed the pen to the paper. Seraphina Fletcher. The ink was black and permanent.

Seraphina felt nothing but a hollow ache. She capped the pen and set it down. "There's one more thing," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The raffle prize. The sports car. I don't need it."

Donovan frowned. "It's worth a hundred and twenty thousand dollars."

"Convert it to cash," Seraphina said. "Keep half. Donate the other half to the pediatric cardiology ward at Mount Sinai."

Donovan stared at her. He had expected her to demand more, to grab everything she could. But she was giving it away.

He nodded slowly. "Done."

Seraphina grabbed the kids' hands. "Can we go now?"

Donovan stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I'll drive you."