The Unwanted Healer's Thirty-Day Fake Marriage

The heavy wooden door creaked open on its ancient hinges.

The instant Cynthia stepped over the threshold into the hallway, her cold, hardened expression vanished like smoke. The muscles in her face shifted with practiced precision—her mouth curving into a soft, demure smile, her eyes warming just enough to look convincing. It didn't reach her eyes. Not even close. But it was flawless.

Dominic stepped out directly behind her. The murderous, vein-popping rage that had contorted his features thirty seconds ago was buried under an equally flawless mask of calm, composed, almost tender composure. The rigid tension in his jaw melted away. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes softened.

To sell the lie—to make it stick—Dominic reached out and placed his large, warm hand firmly on the curve of Cynthia's waist.

Cynthia's breath caught in her throat. Her entire body went rigid as a steel beam at the sudden, unexpected contact, every muscle locking tight. Her stomach clenched involuntarily, a visceral, physical rejection of his touch. But she forced herself to exhale, forced the tension out of her spine, and leaned her weight ever so slightly against his solid side. Her hip pressed against his. They must have looked like a picture-perfect couple.

They walked back into the grand living room in perfect, sickening, synchronized harmony.

Eleonora saw them—the hand on the waist, the leaning bodies, the soft smiles—and clapped her thin, delicate hands together with a sound like breaking twigs. Tears of pure, uncomplicated joy welled in her ancient eyes, spilling over and tracking down the deep wrinkles of her cheeks. Every line on her face seemed to smooth out in radiant delight.

On the velvet sofa, Inger gripped her silk handkerchief so tightly her knuckles cracked audibly. Her eyes burned with a jealousy so toxic, so corrosive, it practically smoked off her skin. The orphan. The charity case. The girl she had tried to sell to a mentally disabled man for a payout. And now she was ascending to the Church family throne while Inger's own daughter stood empty-handed.

Dominic addressed the room, his voice smooth as polished marble, utterly stripped of the venom he had spat at Cynthia five minutes ago. "Cynthia and I have reached an understanding. We are officially engaged."

He looked down at Cynthia, his dark eyes dead and cold as a frozen lake, but his smile was perfect—warm, adoring, the smile of a man who had just found his soulmate. "My legal team will deliver the formal gifts and the ring by tomorrow morning."

Cynthia lowered her eyelashes, playing the demure, overwhelmed bride with Oscar-worthy conviction. Meanwhile, her stomach churned with nausea so violent she was afraid she might be sick on his polished oxfords.

Dominic checked his platinum Patek Philippe watch with a casual flick of his wrist. "Unfortunately, I have an urgent cross-border conference call I cannot postpone. I must return to the city immediately."

Eleonora waved him off with both hands, beaming like the sun. "Go, go, my boy! Work is important! Cynthia, darling, walk your fiancé to his car. It's only proper."

Cynthia had no choice. She walked beside Dominic through the massive front doors, down the sweeping stone steps, and across the crunching gravel driveway to where the black Maybach idled like a crouching panther, its tinted windows reflecting the pale morning sky.

The second they were out of sight of the windows—the instant the massive oak doors swung shut behind them—Dominic's hand snapped back from her waist as if he had pressed his palm against a red-hot stove coil. He aggressively, furiously brushed the fabric of his suit jacket where his arm had rested against her body, swatting at invisible contamination.

Cynthia didn't miss a beat. She vigorously, exaggeratedly brushed the wool of her sweater with her own hand where his palm had pressed, slapping the fabric over and over again with sharp, stinging strikes, acting as if she were dusting off something utterly repulsive and possibly diseased.

Dominic sneered down at her, his lip curling. "Don't get too deep into the role, sweetheart. You aren't Mrs. Church, and you never will be." He ducked into the luxurious leather backseat without a backward glance.

Cynthia slammed the heavy car door shut directly in his face, missing his nose by inches. "Have a terrible trip," she mouthed through the dark tinted glass, her smile wide and venomous.

The Maybach crunched over the gravel, tires spitting small stones, and glided down the long, tree-lined driveway until it disappeared around the bend. Cynthia let out a long, exhausting, bone-deep breath. Her facial muscles ached from the effort of fake smiling. Her shoulders sagged.

She turned and trudged back into the house, heading straight for the stairs. She needed the sanctuary of her tiny bedroom, the locked door, the silence.

As she climbed the thickly carpeted steps to the second floor, she paused mid-stride. Near the shadowed corner of the hallway, half-hidden behind a massive marble Roman pillar and a lush, overgrown potted fern, she heard hushed, conspiratorial voices buzzing with excitement.

Cynthia pressed her back flat against the cold wall, holding her breath until her lungs burned.

It was Eleonora and Celia.

"Did you hear them in that drawing room?" Eleonora was whisper-shouting, her voice practically vibrating with manic glee. "A thirty-day contract! A contract, Celia! My idiot grandson thinks he can outsmart me with a piece of paper!"

Celia giggled, a high, giddy sound. "They looked so good together, though! Did you see the way he touched her waist? The tension was absolutely insane. They're going to combust."

"We cannot let them simply wait out the clock," Eleonora declared, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, calculating register. "We need to force their hands. Accelerate the timeline. Throw them into the fire together and see what emerges from the flames. I want a great-grandchild, and I want it now. I'm not getting any younger."

"I'm in," Celia promised eagerly, her voice breathless with excitement. "I'll tell you their schedules. I know this house inside and out. Whatever you need, Mrs. Church. I'm your soldier."

A crisp, sharp sound echoed in the hallway. The two women had just high-fived behind the pillar.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Cynthia's neck, trickling down her spine. A secret alliance between a billionaire matriarch with unlimited resources and no boundaries, and her gossip-hungry, romance-obsessed cousin. This was a disaster waiting to detonate.

She shook her head slowly, praying she was just being paranoid, and hurried quietly down the hall to her room. The lock clicked behind her with a sound like a closing cell door.