The Mafia’s Fake Wife

Chapter 1Elena

1

Elena

I push through the revolving doors of University Hospital, phone pressed to my ear while trying not to drop the stack of papers clutched in my other hand.

“He drained everything, Liv. Every cent. My tuition’s due, and I have nothing.”

The fluorescent lights overhead seem harsher today, highlighting every tired face that passes me in the lobby. Medical students with dark circles under their eyes. Nurses rushing between shifts. Doctors striding with purpose. Everyone has somewhere to be, something important to do. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with my life in shambles.

“Casey’s a thief, but we’ll figure this out,” says Liv through the phone, her voice steady despite the rage I hear simmering beneath her words.

I exhale slowly, gripping the final notice letter tighter. The paper crinkles under my fingers and is a physical reminder of how quickly everything can fall apart.

“I trusted him, Liv. I actually believed him when he said he was just moving money around to get better interest rates.” My voice cracks on the last word. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. You’re someone who trusted a person you loved. That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes him a monster.”

I weave through the morning crowd toward the hospital café. The line stretches nearly to the door, filled with staff grabbing caffeine before their shifts. Perfect. More time to dwell on my catastrophe.

“The bank says there’s nothing they can do since I authorized the joint account, and Casey’s phone is disconnected. He’s just... gone.”

“Have you tried his parents?”

“They claim they haven’t heard from him though his mom sounded weird on the phone. I think she knows something.”

The line inches forward. I pull out the final notice letter again, scanning the bold red text as if the numbers might magically change.

PAYMENT DUE: $18,750. FINAL NOTICE BEFORE TERMINATION OF ENROLLMENT .

“What about a loan?” Liv asks.

“With what collateral? Casey maxed out our credit cards too. My credit score is in the toilet.”

“What about Dr. Patel? You’re her favorite student. Maybe she could?—”

“No.” I cut her off. “I’m not asking for charity.”

“It’s not charity if you’ve earned it. You’re six months from graduating at the top of your class.”

The line moves again. I’m two people away from the counter when I notice a scent behind me—vanilla, musk, and cedar. Smooth and expensive. Nothing like the antiseptic hospital smell I’ve grown accustomed to. Nothing like Casey’s drugstore cologne.

“I’ll figure out something,” I tell Liv, though I have no idea what. “I’ve got to go. My shift starts soon.”

“Call me later, Elena. We’re going to fix this.”

I hang up and order my coffee as I prefer it, which is black, no sugar. My one luxury these days, and even that feels extravagant now. The barista slides my cup across the counter. I grab it, turn, and crash directly into solid muscle. Hot coffee sloshes over the rim, splashing across my scrubs and the pristine white shirt in front of me. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t?—”

A hand grips my wrist, firm and unyielding. The coffee cup stabilizes in my grip before it can spill further.

When I look up, everything goes totally still.

Tall. Dark. Power carved into every inch of him. His suit surely costs more than my monthly rent—before Casey cleaned me out. His face is entirely sharp angles and cold calculation, like he’s assessing a precarious situation rather than experiencing an awkward coffee collision.

His sharp gaze drops to my badge. “Elena.”

My pulse skitters at the way he says my name, like he’s tasting it, like he already knows me. I’ve never seen this man before. I would remember.

“You looked like you had something to say. An apology?” His voice is deep, with an accent I can’t place. Something European, maybe Italian? No, but I’m not sure what.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain has short-circuited, caught between embarrassment over the coffee and temporary confusion about how he knows my name.

He smiles slightly. “Nothing to say?”

He lets go of my wrist, and I realize how tightly he’d been holding it. Not painful, but... possessive. Controlling. My skin tingles where his fingers have been.

Without another word, he steps around me and continues toward the exit, people instinctively moving out of his path. No one bumps into him. No one would dare.

I walk away fast, a shiver running up my spine. The coffee stain on my scrubs is cooling against my skin, but my face still burns. Who was that? And how did he know my name? The answer comes to me in a flash as I recall his gaze on my chest. Duh, it’s on my name tag.

I push through the double doors leading to the staff areas, trying to shake off the encounter. I have bigger problems than mysterious men in expensive suits, like how I’m going to come up with nearly twenty thousand dollars in the next forty-eight hours.

Inside the break room, Justin is already waiting, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I enter, his friendly smile flickering when I barely acknowledge him. “Rough morning?” he asks, tucking away his phone.

I toss my empty coffee cup in the trash. “You could say that.”

Justin and I started our clinical rotations together last year. He’s smart if too eager sometimes, and he has this weird competition between us built up in his mind since he’s second in class, and I’m first.

“Coffee stain?” He points to the brown splotch on my blue scrubs.

“Yeah.” I grab a paper towel and wet it in the sink, dabbing at the stain. “Ran into someone.”

“Must have been some collision.” He grabs his clipboard from the table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just a rude guy in an expensive suit.” I toss away the paper towel. “Probably some hospital donor who thinks he owns the place.”

Justin raises an eyebrow. “Was he older? Gray hair, glasses, and walks like he’s got a stick up his?—”

“No. Younger. Dark hair. Tall.” I grab my own clipboard, checking the patient roster for the day. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s focus on work.”

“Sure thing.” Justin’s voice carries a note of curiosity I choose to ignore. “We’ve got rounds in five minutes. Dr. Patel wants us to present on the kidney transplant in 307.”

I nod, grateful for the change of subject. Work is the one area of my life that still makes sense. The one place where I know exactly what I’m doing. “I reviewed his labs last night,” I say, flipping through my notes. “Creatinine levels are stabilizing, but I’m concerned about the slight fever he developed.”

Justin nods, and we fall into our familiar rhythm, discussing symptoms and treatment options as we head for the floor. This is what I’m good at. This is what I’ve worked so hard for. This is what Casey is about to take away from me.

I try to focus on the patient files, but my mind keeps drifting back to the man in the café. The way he said my name. The cold assessment in his eyes. I need to forget him. I have real problems to solve, but as we step into the elevator, I catch myself glancing back toward the café, half-expecting to see him watching me. The doors close, and I exhale, relieved and disappointed all at once.

“You sure you’re okay?” asks Justin with concern.

“I’m fine.” The lie comes easily after weeks of practice. “Just tired.”

The elevator climbs, and I straighten my shoulders, pushing aside thoughts of Casey, the tuition notice, and the mysterious man. For the next twelve hours, I’ll be Dr. Clarke, focused and professional. Elena with the collapsing life can wait.

But as the elevator doors open to our floor, I can still smell that lingering scent of vanilla, musk, and cedar. Still feel the firm grip on my wrist. Still hear the way he said my name.

Elena .

Like he knew me.

Like he owned me.

Dr. Patel is waiting at the nurses’ station, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. She glances up from her tablet as we approach.

“Clarke, Kahlen, you’re late.” She doesn’t look at her watch. She doesn’t need to.

“Sorry, Dr. Patel,” Justin says. “Won’t happen again.”

I nod in agreement, though we’re only two minutes past our scheduled time. In Dr. Patel’s world, that’s practically a cardinal sin.

“Mr. Abernathy’s post-op fever spiked to 101.3 overnight,” she says, handing me his chart. “What’s your differential?”

My mind snaps into clinical mode. “Given his recent transplant, I’d consider rejection, though it’s early. More likely infection—surgical site, urinary tract, or pneumonia. Could also be a reaction to the anti-rejection medications.”

Dr. Patel nods, her expression giving away nothing. “And your plan?”

“Blood cultures, urine culture, chest X-ray. Broad-spectrum antibiotics until we identify the source. Monitor his kidney function closely.”

“Good. Kahlen?”

Justin jumps in with additional suggestions while I scan Mr. Abernathy’s latest labs. The numbers blur slightly, and I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. I can’t afford distractions today. I can’t afford anything, period.

“Clarke, you’ll present at rounds,” says Dr. Patel, already moving toward the next patient room. “And fix your scrubs. You look unprofessional.”

I glance down at the coffee stain, now a faint brown smudge across my chest. “Yes, Dr. Patel.”

We follow her down the hallway, a small parade of white coats and blue scrubs. Two more residents join us, along with a nervous-looking medical student. I flip through my notes, mentally rehearsing my presentation.

“You’ve got this,” Justin whispers as we approach Mr. Abernathy’s room.

I nod, grateful for his support even if I don’t deserve it. I’ve been distant with everyone lately, too consumed by my own problems to be a good friend.

Dr. Patel pauses outside the door. “Remember, confidence inspires trust. Patients need to believe we know what we’re doing, even when we’re not entirely sure.”

It’s one of her favorite sayings, and usually it makes me smile. Today, it just reminds me how much of my life is a performance right now. Pretending I’m not about to lose everything I’ve worked for. Pretending I’m not furious and heartbroken and terrified all at once.

We enter the room, and I paste on my professional smile. Mr. Abernathy is sitting up in bed, his wife in the chair beside him. They both look worried, but their faces brighten when they see me.

“Dr. Clarke,” says Mrs. Abernathy. “We were hoping you’d be here today.”

The simple statement warms me. This is why I do this. This connection. This trust. This chance to help people when they’re most vulnerable.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy. How are you feeling today?”

As Mr. Abernathy describes his symptoms, I perform a quick visual assessment. His surgical site looks clean with no signs of infection. His color is good despite the fever. His breathing is slightly labored but not concerning.

I present his case to the team, answering Dr. Patel’s rapid-fire questions without hesitation. This is the one area where my confidence never wavers. The one place where I still feel in control.

When we leave the room, Dr. Patel gives me a small nod—high praise from her. “Good assessment, Clarke. Order those tests and let me know the results immediately.”

“Yes, Dr. Patel.”

She moves on to the next patient, taking most of the team with her. Justin stays behind, watching me with concern. “You really are okay, right?” he asks once we’re alone. “You seem... off.”

I consider brushing him off again, but the genuine worry in his eyes stops me. “Just some personal stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Not unless you’ve got twenty thousand dollars lying around.” The joke falls flat, and I immediately regret it when his eyes widen.

“Twenty thousand? Elena, what’s going on?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Bad joke. I should go order those tests.”

Before he can press further, I hurry toward the nurses’ station. I don’t need Justin’s pity. I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve been taking care of myself since my mother died, and my father disappeared before I really had any firm memories of him. This is just one more problem to solve on my own.

As I log into the computer system, my phone buzzes with a text from Liv.

Called the financial aid office. They might have emergency options. Call them ASAP.

A tiny spark of hope flickers to life. Maybe there’s a solution after all. Maybe I won’t have to walk away from everything I’ve worked for. I quickly order Mr. Abernathy’s tests, then step into an empty consultation room to make the call. The financial aid office puts me on hold immediately, and I pace the small space while waiting, rehearsing what I’ll say. How I’ll explain that my boyfriend stole my tuition money without sounding like a complete idiot.

Through the window, I can see the hospital café entrance where I had my strange encounter. The man is long gone, but I can still picture him perfectly. The intensity in his eyes. The way he said my name.

The hold music cuts off, and a bored voice comes on the line. “Financial Aid, this is Debra.”

I turn away from the window, focusing on the call. “Hi, this is Elena Clarke. I’m a fourth-year medical student, and I’m calling about emergency financial options.”

“What kind of emergency?”

I swallow hard. “I’ve received a final notice for my tuition payment, but I’ve had an... unexpected financial situation arise.”

“You mean you can’t pay.”

“Yes, but it’s temporary. I just need?—”

“The deadline for emergency aid applications was last month, Ms. Clarke.”

My stomach drops. “But this just happened. I didn’t know I would need it last month.”

“That’s why it’s called emergency aid, for students who anticipate emergencies.”

I grip the phone tighter. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can you anticipate an emergency?”

“I don’t make the rules, Ms. Clarke.” Her voice remains flat, uninterested. “The next application period opens in January.”

“January? My payment is due in two days. I’ll be withdrawn from the program by January. It’s too late to get federal student loans at this point, for this semester.” I’ve been lucky that my inheritance has paid for my education. Until now. I was counting on the funds I thought were in my account and never filled out a FAFSA. A quick search last night already revealed I can’t possibly get it finished in time and approved for this semester.

“I understand that’s frustrating.” She clearly doesn’t. “Have you considered a private loan? Some of those fund quite quickly.”

“My credit is...” I trail off, not wanting to explain. “Are there any other options? Any exceptions?”

“You could speak with the Dean of Students. Sometimes, they make allowances for exceptional circumstances.”

A thread of hope. “How do I arrange that?”

“Submit a formal request through the portal. They typically respond within ten to fifteen business days.”

The hope snaps. “I don’t have that long. I have two days.”

“I understand that’s frustrating,” she repeats, like a robot with limited programming, “But those are the procedures.”

I thank her and hang up, resisting the urge to throw my phone across the room. This can’t be happening. Years of education and training, countless sleepless nights, and dedicating all my time to this endeavor, and all of it is about to disappear because Casey Harris decided my inheritance would look better in his pocket than mine.

My pager beeps, jolting me back to reality. Mr. Abernathy’s test results are ready, so I need to focus on my patients. I need to be Dr. Clarke for a few more hours. I’ll figure out how to save my career later.

As I step back into the hallway, Justin is waiting, his expression serious. “Elena, we need to talk about what you just said.”

“Not now, Justin. Mr. Abernathy’s results are in.”

“This is important.”

“So is our patient.” I brush past him, heading for the computer station.

He follows, persistent. “Twenty thousand dollars isn’t nothing. If you’re in trouble?—”

“I’m not in trouble.” I log into the system, pulling up the test results. “I’m handling it.”

“Is this why you’ve been so distracted lately? Why you keep taking extra shifts?”

I ignore him, scanning the results. “His white count is elevated. Cultures are pending, but this definitely looks like an infection.”

“Elena—”

“Justin, please.” I finally look at him, letting him see a fraction of my desperation. “I need to focus on work right now. It’s all I have left.”

Something in my expression must convince him because he nods slowly. “Okay, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Thank you.” I turn back to the computer, relieved when he doesn’t push further. Sometimes, he’s a decent human being, and this is one of those times. It’s the other times, when he’s cocky and every inch the rich elite he was born that holds me back from confiding him. It lurks in the back of my mind to ask him for a loan. He’d have the money, but the strings attached would be too entangling. I try to pretend I’m unaware of his romantic interest, so I can’t open that door even a crack, even to finish my education without interruption.

We spend the next hour updating Dr. Patel, adjusting Mr. Abernathy’s treatment plan, and checking on other patients. The routine is comforting, the medical problems solvable in ways my personal ones aren’t. By lunchtime, I’ve almost managed to push both Casey and the mysterious man from my thoughts. Almost.

Then I step into the elevator and find myself face to face with the man from the café again. He’s alone in the elevator, standing in the back corner like it’s a throne room, and he’s the king. Recognition flashes across his face.

I freeze, one foot in the elevator and one still in the hallway. For a second, I consider backing out and waiting for the next one.

“Going down?” he asks, his deep voice filling the small space.

I hesitate, then step fully inside. The doors close behind me, trapping us together. “Fourth floor,” I say, reaching for the button panel.

“Already pressed.” He gestures to the illuminated button.

I nod and move to the opposite corner, putting as much distance between us as possible. The elevator begins its descent, and I stare fixedly at the numbers above the door, acutely aware of his presence.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unasked questions. Who are you? Why did you say my name the way you did earlier? Why do I care?

“You changed your scrubs,” he says suddenly.

I glance down at my clean uniform, surprised he noticed. “Coffee stains aren’t very professional.”

“No.” His gaze travels over me, not leering but assessing. “Though I believe I was the cause of that particular stain.”

“It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“A shared responsibility then.”

The elevator stops at the fourth floor, but neither of us moves. The doors begin to close again before I snap out of whatever trance I’m in and thrust out my arm to stop them.

“This is my floor,” I say unnecessarily.

He inclines his head slightly. “Until next time, Elena.”

The way he says my name sends another shiver through me. I step out quickly, not looking back as the doors close behind me. Why am I so certain I’ll see him again, and why am I conflicted about that?