Marla’s POV
Two weeks ago, I was Googling how to stretch canned soup into three meals in Dana’s kitchen while sipping on bad coffee. Three days ago, I sold an old pair of boots I barely wore just to pay half my electric bill. Yesterday, I found out from the hospital that grandma’s care facility was cutting services again, saying her insurance didn’t qualify for the upgraded wing anymore. Translation? She’d be moved to the ward that reeked of bleach, loneliness, and slow neglect. I promised I’d fix it, even though I had no idea how.
So yeah, I needed a job. Scratch that, I needed money. So when Dana, who worked in HR at Mercer House, called me on Friday with exactly six words: “Hey, want easy money next week?” I didn’t ask questions, I just said yes.
She said it was a temp admin gig, someone on the marketing floor needed a fill-in. Phones, emails, maybe ordering cupcakes for office birthdays if I got lucky. Nothing stressful, nothing permanent. Besides, Dana owed me. Something about a botched vacation, a spare key mix-up, and the time she locked me out of my own apartment for six hours.
It sounded simple and harmless. What could possibly go wrong? “No pressure,” she told me. “One week. You won’t even see anyone important.” Spoiler alert: She lied.
“I’m sorry. I know I messed up,” Dana called me after my tiring shift. After making me encounter that cold and bossy beast. “You were only supposed to cover for someone on the twelfth floor. I swear to God, that’s what I submitted.”
“There was a system reroute,” she said, voice rushing. “One of the executive assistants quit suddenly over the weekend. The algorithm flagged your name as the next available temp and filled the opening.” I just nodded because Ives already told me that.
She groaned. “I didn’t catch it until this morning when I checked the internal desk logs. I tried pulling you back down, but Mercer already signed off on the change.”
My blood went cold. “He what?”
“Left a note: Leave it. Two words. That’s it. Once the CEO signs off, no one can touch it.”
“You didn’t think to call me earlier?”
“I tried! I’ve been on the phone with IT all morning. HR’s useless right now. I’m so, so sorry.” My heart was thudding too hard. The kind of panic that settles behind your ribs and claws at your lungs.
“This isn’t what I agreed to, Dana.”
“I know. I’ll make it up to you. Don’t say anything weird. Don’t break anything. And for the love of God, don’t talk to Mercer unless you absolutely have to.” Too late. The call ended.
I stepped back into the quiet hallway like I’d just been hit by a truck, and there it was. Sitting perfectly centered on my desk like it had been waiting for me. A folder with no label, and no note. I opened it.
Inside: the NDA. A legal contract. Terms that read more like a casting call than a work agreement. Three months as Ives Mercer’s fake fiancée. Public events, coordinated appearances, zero screw-ups, mandatory cohabitation, and airtight non disclosure clause.
And then I saw the number, the payment. It was more money than I’d ever seen attached to my name. Enough to keep my apartment, enough to move Grandma into a good facility, and enough to stop worrying… just for a little while.
I didn’t know whether to cry or throw up. I closed the folder and walked out of the building with it clutched to my chest. I didn’t open it again that night. I couldn’t. Because once I said yes, there’d be no going back.