Chapter 3Elena
3
Elena
I push through the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall, my phone clutched tightly in hand. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly as I pause in the empty corridor, thumb hovering over the screen. For the twentieth time today, I type out a message to Casey.
“Where the hell are you? Just answer me!”
I hit send, watching the blue bubble attempt to deliver before the now-familiar exclamation point appears. Failed. Again. The mechanical coldness of that error message feels like another slap across my face.
“Dammit,” I mutter, my voice echoing in the empty hallway.
I tap over to Instagram, the app loading with painful slowness. When Casey’s profile finally appears, I reflexively pull down to refresh, hoping—stupidly, desperately hoping—that something will have changed.
“The user you are looking for no longer exists.”
The same blank avatar stares back at me, that digital tombstone marking where his photos once lived. I switch to X, fingers trembling slightly as I navigate to his profile. The same void. The same erasure.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper, throat tightening as the reality sinks deeper into my chest.
That bastard hasn’t just ghosted me. He’s methodically, deliberately scrubbed himself from every digital connection we shared. Erased himself from my online world with the same calculated precision he used to drain my bank account. Every penny of my inheritance—my future, my security, and my last connection to my mother—gone, along with the man I thought loved me.
I’m so focused on my phone that I barely notice where I’m walking until I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall. My phone clatters to the ground as strong hands grip my upper arms, steadying me.
“Sorry, I wasn’t…” The words die in my throat as I look up.
It’s him. The man from the café. The one who appeared in the elevator. The one who was in Anton’s hospital room this morning.
Damir Antonov.
He studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s even more imposing up close, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that belongs on a magazine cover. Dark hair, perfectly styled. A suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
“Ms. Clarke.” His voice is deep, with the faintest trace of an accent I can’t place. “We meet again.”
I step back, breaking his hold on my arms. “Are you following me?”
“I was waiting for you.”
The honesty throws me off balance. “Why?”
“I’d like to speak with you.” He glances around at the students streaming past us. “Privately.”
Every instinct tells me to walk away because this man is dangerous. I sensed it the moment I first saw him. There’s something predatory in the way he moves, in the way people give him a wide berth without even realizing they’re doing it. “I have class,” I lie.
“No, you don’t. Your next lecture isn’t until tomorrow morning.”
My blood runs cold. “How do you know my schedule?”
He doesn’t answer as he gestures toward a quieter area near the courtyard. “Five minutes of your time, Ms. Clarke. That’s all I ask.”
I should say no. I should walk away. I should call campus security.
Instead, I follow him, curiosity overriding common sense. We stop beneath a large oak tree, away from the flow of students. “What do you want?” I cross my arms over my chest.
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I understand you’re in a difficult financial situation.”
My cheeks burn with humiliation. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.” He steps closer. “You need money. I need a wife. Let’s talk.”
I blink, certain I’ve misheard him. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a straightforward proposition.” Damir’s voice is cool and measured, like he’s discussing the weather instead of something completely outrageous. “You require funds to complete your education. I require a wife for... personal reasons.”
A startled laugh escapes me, high-pitched and nervous. I look around to see if anyone else is hearing this absurdity. “You’re insane.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his face. His gaze remains fixed on mine, calculating and serious. “It’s a simple transaction,” he continues, as if explaining something obvious. “You marry me, and I pay your tuition. After a suitable period… say, six months… we divorce, and you continue your life with your medical degree.”
I yank my arm free from his light grip and step back, nearly stumbling over an exposed tree root. “You’re insane,” I repeat, because my brain can’t seem to formulate any other response to this madness.
“I’m practical.” He doesn’t move closer, but somehow his presence still feels like it’s crowding me. “You need approximately twenty thousand dollars immediately, plus living expenses for the six months of your schooling. I need a wife who won’t complicate my life with emotional entanglements.”
The way he says it makes my pulse quicken, not with attraction, but with something closer to fear. This man knows exactly how much money I need. He’s researched me, tracked me down, and now he’s proposing marriage? “If you keep bothering me, I’ll call the police.” My threat sounds hollow even to my own ears.
His lips curve slightly, like I’m a child who’s said something amusing. The almost-smile never reaches his eyes. “And tell them what? That a man offered to help you financially?” He gestures between us with one hand. “No laws have been broken. No threats made.”
“That a stranger is stalking me and proposing a sham marriage.”
“I’m not a stranger. We were formally introduced this morning. I’m Damir Antonov, a friend of Anton Mikhailov.”
“I don’t care who you are.” I grab my bag tighter. “Stay away from me.”
I turn and walk away, forcing myself not to run despite the trembling in my hands. I don’t look back, but I can feel his gaze on me until I turn the corner.
“He’s unhinged,” I mutter, pacing the small living room of our apartment. “He just showed up, offering marriage like it was a damn job contract.”
Liv sits cross-legged on our secondhand couch, her dark curls piled on top of her head, eyes wide as she listens. She’s still wearing her scrubs from her ICU shift and has a blood stain on the right knee.
“Back up,” she says, holding up her hands. “Start from the beginning. This is the same guy from the café? The one who knew your name?”
I nod, dropping onto the couch beside her. “And the same one who was in Anton’s room this morning. He’s some kind of business associate of Anton’s.”
“And now he wants to marry you.” Liv’s voice is flat with disbelief.
“Not for real. He wants a fake wife for some undisclosed reason, and he’s offering to pay my tuition in exchange.”
Liv whistles low. “That’s some Pretty Woman shit right there.”
“Except I’m not a prostitute, and he’s not Richard Gere.” I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest. “He’s creepy. He knew my class schedule, Liv. He knew exactly how much money I need.”
Her expression shifts from amused to concerned. “That is creepy. How would he know that?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he overheard something at the hospital?” Even as I say it, it doesn’t make sense. No one at the hospital knows the details of my financial situation except Liv…and Justin has an inkling.
“What did you say his name was again?”
“Damir Antonov.”
Liv pulls out her phone and starts typing. Her eyes widen. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
She turns her phone toward me. On the screen is a photo of Damir in a tuxedo at some charity gala, standing next to the mayor. The headline reads: “Tech Mogul Damir Antonov Donates $5 Million to Children’s Hospital.”
“Tech mogul?” I grab her phone, scrolling through the article. “It says he’s the CEO of Volkov Industries. They do... something with cybersecurity?”
“Keep scrolling.”
I do, and my mouth goes dry. Forbes estimates his net worth at over two billion dollars. “Two billion?” I whisper.
“With a B.” Liv takes her phone back. “You need to be careful. Guys like that—rich, powerful, and dangerous—don’t hear the word no.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not considering it.”
“Good.” Liv stands up and stretches. “Because it sounds shady as hell. Why would a billionaire need a fake wife? Tax reasons? Green card? Hiding his sexuality from conservative investors?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” I toss aside the pillow. “I’m not marrying a stranger for money.”
“Even if it means dropping out of med school?” Liv’s question is gentle, but it hits like a punch.
“I’ll figure out something.” I stand up too, suddenly restless. “I’ve got one day still. Maybe I can get an emergency loan from somewhere else.”
Liv gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe it any more than I do. “I’d loan you the money if I had it.”
“I know.” I squeeze her arm. “And I love you for that, but I’ll figure this out on my own.”
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city through my cracked window. The financial aid office was clear—no extensions and no emergency funds. My credit is shot thanks to Casey putting bills in my name and never paying them. No bank will give me a loan without a cosigner, and I have no one to ask.
I think about my mother, gone almost three years now. She’d worked so hard to save for my education, setting aside every spare penny from her nursing salary, combined with the small trust fund her own mother left her. The inheritance was supposed to be her legacy. Her way of giving me a solid foundation.
And Casey stole it all.
For a brief, terrible moment, I wonder what would happen if I took up Damir on his offer. Just for a second, I let myself imagine it. A business arrangement. A transaction. A way to finish my degree.
Then I remember the cold calculation in his eyes, and the fantasy shatters. Whatever Damir Antonov wants, it can’t be as simple as he claims. Men like him don’t offer solutions without hidden costs.
I roll over, punching my pillow into shape. Tomorrow, I’ll try the alumni emergency fund again. Or maybe I can get a job. I’m going to have to anyway. I’ll probably need a dozen jobs to save enough to cover my last six months of education. How long will that take? I’ll be set back months, maybe even years, in pursuit of my degree. Still, I have to do something. Anything but Damir’s offer.
The lecture on cardiac pathophysiology drags on, but I barely register a word. My notebook remains blank as Professor Whitman drones on about myocardial infarctions. Normally, I’d be taking detailed notes, asking questions, fully engaged. Today, all I can think about is the tuition deadline looming tomorrow, and the bizarre encounter with Damir.
When class finally ends, I shove my unused notebook into my bag and head for the door, my mind already racing through increasingly desperate options. Maybe I could sell my car? It’s barely worth $3,000, but it’s something. Or pawn my laptop? I’d need it for classes, but maybe?—
“Elena!”
I turn to see Justin jogging toward me, his sandy hair flopping over his forehead. He’s wearing a pale blue button-down that matches his eyes perfectly, which is probably not a coincidence.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile. Justin is nice enough if a bit intense about his class ranking. He’s been second to my first since our first year, and he’s never quite gotten over it.
“You okay? You seemed distracted in there.” He falls into step beside me as I head toward the exit.
“Just tired.”
“Big night?” His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it. Justin has asked me out three times since we started med school, and I’ve said no three times.
“Big case load at the hospital,” I lie.
We push through the doors into the bright afternoon sunlight. Justin shifts his messenger bag and gives me what I’m sure he thinks is his most charming smile.
“Want me to walk you home?”
I tighten my grip on my bag. “No, thanks.”
His smile falters. “You sure? It’s on my way.”
It’s not on his way. His apartment is in the opposite direction.
“I’m sure.” My tone is firmer than I intended, but I’m too exhausted to care. “I’ve got some errands to run.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Maybe another time then?”
I don’t answer, just give a noncommittal shrug and turn away. I don’t have the energy to deal with Justin’s persistence today. He probably means well, but I’ve had enough of men who think they know what’s best for me.
As I walk toward the bus stop, my phone buzzes with a text from Liv.
Any luck with the alumni fund?
I type back: No. They’re tapped out for the semester.
Her response comes quickly: Shit. What’s Plan B?
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What is Plan B with the tuition due by close of business today? I’ve called every family friend, checked every scholarship and emergency fund, and now face the very real possibility that tomorrow—since today is a Thursday, and I figure they won’t catch me attending class until at least Monday?—
is my last day of med school until I can get a FAFSA filed and get funds by next semester. Before that, I need to find a job either way.
I’m out of immediate options that will keep me in school uninterrupted.
Still working on it, I text back.
The bus arrives, and I climb aboard, finding a seat near the back. As the city slides by outside the window, I can’t stop thinking about Damir’s offer. A business arrangement, he’d called it. A simple transaction.
Nothing about Damir seems simple. The way he looked at me, like he could see right through me and knew exactly how desperate I was, makes me uneasy. What does he really want? And why me?
I pull out my phone again and search his name as Liv did last night. Dozens of articles pop up—business profiles, charity galas, and tech industry news. In every photo, he looks impeccable, powerful, and untouchable. There’s not a single personal detail beyond basic biographical information. No mention of family, relationships, or hobbies. Nothing that explains why a billionaire would need a fake wife.
The bus stops a block from our apartment, and I get off, my mind still churning. I have until tomorrow to come up with nearly twenty thousand dollars, or my medical career is over before it’s begun. All those years of study, all my mother’s sacrifices, and all my sacrifices will be wasted, or at least deferred, because I trusted the wrong person.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Liv.
Don’t kill me, but I’ve been thinking about that creepy billionaire’s offer.
I stop walking, staring at the message. Before I can respond, another text appears.
What if you just heard him out? Get details? You don’t have to say yes.
I type back: Are you serious?
Dead serious. You need $ and he has it. Just TALK to him. Bring me as backup if you want.
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. No way. It’s sketchy AF.
Sketchier than dropping out of med school with no degree?
Her words hit hard because they’re true. What options do I really have left? I put away my phone without answering and continue walking, my thoughts a tangled mess. By the time I reach our apartment building, I’ve cycled through anger, desperation, and resignation a dozen times.
The truth is, I don’t want to consider Damir’s offer. Every instinct tells me to run in the opposite direction, but what choice do I have? My deadline is tomorrow. My options are gone.
As I climb the stairs to our third-floor walk-up, I make a decision. I’ll hear him out. Just a conversation to get the details to understand what he’s really asking for. I don’t have to agree to anything.
I just need to figure out how to contact him after deciding if it’s really come down to this. Am I this desperate? A sinking sensation in my stomach confirms I am.