A stranger called husband

They said you could ask for help when you needed it. That was the rule, right? That somewhere, somehow, a door would open if you just knocked hard enough? Yeah, well, I had knocked, kicked, headbutted, and even tried sweet-talking the metaphorical door, but apparently, the universe had decided to leave me on read.

The bursary office smelled like toner and frustration. A fan swung side to side on the ceiling, doing absolutely nothing to help the heat. I sat in front of the woman at the desk, a permanent frown etched on her face like she'd been personally victimized by my existence. Her glasses dangled from a chain around her neck, and every now and then, she'd peer over them like she was judging my soul.

"Miss Amara Leigh," she said, scanning the screen in front of her. Her nails tapped the keyboard like gunfire. "Your financial aid request has been reviewed and, unfortunately, denied."

My heart plummeted. Like, full-on nose-dive into a canyon.

"Wait-what?" I blinked. "There must be a mistake. My GPA is above the requirement, and my documents-"

"-Are in order. Yes." She didn't even look at me. Just kept typing. "But the board has exhausted its emergency funds for this semester. You're welcome to reapply next term."

Next term?

Was she serious? By next term, my sister might not even be alive.

"Please," I said, trying not to sound desperate even though I absolutely was. "My sister-she's in the hospital. She has sickle cell, and the bills are... they're bad. I just need something to keep going. Anything."

She finally looked up, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of sympathy. But it passed like a cloud.

"I understand, but there's nothing I can do. The system is what it is."

I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both. But I didn't. Instead, I stood up like my legs didn't feel like melting and nodded like my whole life hadn't just hit another dead-end.

"Thank you," I said, because manners matter even when the world is falling apart.

I stepped outside into the harsh sunlight. The heat slapped me like it was personal. My backpack was digging into my shoulders, and my phone buzzed with a reminder from the hospital app: Daily payment pending: $82.60.

Eighty-two dollars. Just for today.

I scrolled through my banking app. Balance: $3.72.

I could afford half a coffee.

I sat on the campus steps and tried not to cry. My mom used to say crying was good, like a cleanse. But she also used to say that life would get easier if you just worked hard enough. She was wrong about that one, so maybe she was wrong about crying too.

"You look like someone just kicked your puppy," a voice said.

I looked up, squinting against the sun. A man stood a few feet away, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that looked too expensive to be real. Like something straight off a runway. Or a villain's closet.

He was tall. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. No smile.

Definitely not a student.

I wiped my face quickly. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet." He moved closer. Too smooth. Too sure of himself. "I heard about your situation. The bursary office isn't very private with their files."

What?

"Excuse me?"

He ignored the question and extended a card. Black. Unlabeled except for a number and initials, J.L.

No last name. Just an initial. Cryptic much?

"I represent a group that provides... alternative solutions for people in desperate need."

I blinked at him. "Is this a scam? Because I'm one bad day away from throwing hands."

His lips twitched. Maybe a smirk. Maybe gas.

"I assure you, it's quite real. You need money. Your sister needs treatment. And I need someone who's willing to sign a contract. One year. No funny business. No touching, unless agreed upon. No romantic expectations."

I stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Wait, what kind of contract are we talking about?"

He tilted his head, eyes scanning my face like he could read every thought.

"Marriage."

I choked. Actually choked. Coughed like my lungs forgot how to function.

"I'm sorry-did you just say marriage?"

"One year. Legal, binding. You'll be compensated monthly. Generously. And your sister's hospital bills will be handled immediately."

I laughed. Like, full-on borderline hysterical.

"Who does that? Who just walks around offering marriage like it's a Starbucks drink?"

He didn't laugh. Of course he didn't.

"You have three days to think about it. The offer will not be repeated."

He handed me a folder. Inside: a contract. Legal jargon. Payment schedule. A confidentiality clause.

"Who are you?" I asked, genuinely confused and creeped out.

He looked at me like I was the one asking silly questions.

"I'm the only option you have left."

And then he turned and walked away.

Just like that.

I sat there, clutching the folder like it was a bomb, watching him disappear into a sleek black car that definitely screamed villain energy. Tinted windows. No license plate I could read.

Was I hallucinating?

Was this real life?

I opened the folder again. There it was. In clean, terrifying print: Spousal Agreement Contract. Term: 12 Months. Payment: $500,000 per month.

I almost fainted.

My brain said: scam. Run.

But my phone buzzed again.

"Zina's fever is back." The nurse says she needs a transfusion by tomorrow.

And just like that, my world snapped back into focus.

I looked at the folder.

One year.

No touching. No love. Just a signature.

How bad could it be?

Every second I waste here, my sister is-

I'm running.

Down the stairs.

The cab I hailed is stuffy, and the driver keeps glancing at me through the rearview mirror, like he can smell the desperation on me. I don't care. My fingers fidget on my lap the entire ride. The moment we stop in front of the hospital, I shove a crumpled note at him and jump out.

The fluorescent lights of the pediatric ward always smell of antiseptic and sadness. I hurry past a nurse who barely looks up and push the door to Room 307 open.

Zina's still in bed, but she looks worse. Much worse.

She's tucked beneath her favorite cartoon-print blanket, yet her lips are pale and dry. Her tiny chest rises and falls like it's fighting gravity. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead, and her little hand-usually so warm and squirmy-is cold when I take it in mine.

"Zee," I whisper, crouching beside her bed. "I'm here."

Her eyes flutter, and she gives me a weak, drowsy smile. "You missed cartoons."

"I'll catch a rerun," I say, pressing my lips to her forehead. She's burning. "You just rest, okay?"

She nods and closes her eyes again.

I press my hand to my mouth to stop the sob. No. Not here. Not now.

I hear the door open behind me. A nurse walks in, clipboard in hand, her expression tight.

"Miss Amara," she says. "Can I speak with you outside, please?"

My heart dips. I follow her out, glancing once more at Zina before the door closes behind me.

"The hospital management asked me to notify you earlier, but you weren't around." The nurse shifts uncomfortably. "Your subsidy request expired last week. You pleaded with us, so we extended things-but from tomorrow, without proof of payment or a sponsor-"

Her eyes meet mine.

"You'll no longer be allowed to stay here. We can't continue the treatment without the bills being cleared."

Something inside me crumbles.

"But she needs a transfusion tomorrow," I say, my voice barely audible.

"Yes. Which is why I'm telling you now."

"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper. "I don't have anyone else. I don't-"

She places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Amara. I truly am."

The moment she leaves, I slide down the corridor wall and bury my face in my knees.

This is it. There's no more delaying. No more what-ifs or second guesses.

I have to marry him.

Even if he's a stranger.

Even if the man I'm about to call husband doesn't intend to try to love me.

Even if I may hate him just a little.

Because I love my sister more.