The Unwanted Healer's Thirty-Day Fake Marriage

The Acela Express train tore through the tracks between Washington D.C. and New York, the metal carriage vibrating with a slight, continuous sway.

Cynthia Bowers sat by the window, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of her canvas tote bag. She kept her eyes glued to the blurred trees outside, forcing her breathing to stay even. The enclosed space of the train car made her chest tight, a mild claustrophobia she fought to suppress every time she traveled.

"Sir. Sir, look at me."

The low, urgent voice came from the seat right next to her. Cynthia didn't turn her head, but her peripheral vision caught the sudden, violent movement.

Dominic Church was suffocating. His large hands gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned completely white. The veins on the back of his hands bulged against his skin. His chest heaved in rapid, shallow jerks, but no air seemed to reach his lungs.

Leo, a heavily built bodyguard sitting in the row ahead, twisted around in a panic. He reached out, his thick fingers fumbling to loosen Dominic's expensive silk tie.

Dominic blindly swatted Leo's hand away. A low, agonizing groan ripped from his throat. His massive frame curled inward, pressing into the wide leather seat. The severe paranoia he suffered from had triggered a full-blown neurological spasm. His muscles were locking up, betraying him.

Whispers broke out across the first-class cabin. Passengers turned their heads, their eyes wide with curiosity and alarm. Yet, the freezing, dangerous aura radiating from Dominic kept everyone glued to their seats. No one dared to step forward.

Cynthia stared harder at the window. Not my business, she told herself. Keep your head down.

Then, Dominic let out a ragged, wet gasp. His face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen white. His lips began to take on a bluish tint.

The instinct of a healer-the instinct of The Surgeon-bypassed her brain. Cynthia unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up.

Before her foot even hit the aisle, Leo's massive arm shot out like an iron bar, blocking her path.

"Step back," Leo barked, his eyes scanning her plain sweater and frayed bag with intense suspicion. "Stay away from him."

Cynthia didn't flinch. She met Leo's aggressive glare with eyes as cold as ice. "Move, or he dies in two minutes. I can fix this."

Dominic's body convulsed violently against the leather seat. His eyes rolled back. He was seconds away from going into shock.

Leo glanced back at his boss, his hesitation lasting exactly one second. In that tiny window, Cynthia ducked swiftly under his thick arm.

She dropped to one knee beside Dominic's seat. Sweat coated his forehead, his jaw locked in a terrifying grimace.

Without wasting a breath, Cynthia reached up to her messy bun. Her fingers quickly unclasped a long, sharp-tipped metal hairpin that held her hair together. Her dark locks tumbled down over her shoulders in a wild cascade, but she didn't care. It was the only sharp, clean object she had on her.

Leo saw the glint of the metal. "What the hell is that?" he roared, lunging forward to grab her hand.

Cynthia didn't even look at him. In that split second, her survival instincts kicked in. She ducked low, dropping her shoulder with a raw, almost feral agility to narrowly evade Leo's massive hand. It was a completely unrefined, clumsy movement, but it was fast enough to keep her out of his reach. At the exact same moment, her right hand moved.

She drove the silver needle directly into the acupressure point on the inside of Dominic's wrist. It was fast, brutal, and perfectly accurate.

A sharp, piercing pain sliced through the fog in Dominic's brain. His eyes snapped open. His vision was heavily blurred from the lack of oxygen, the world reduced to hazy shapes and shadows.

Through the blur, he saw the sharp, cold line of a woman's jaw. And right in front of his eyes, a delicate silver bracelet gleamed on her wrist as her hand hovered over him.

The violent spasms in his chest instantly began to loosen. Air rushed back into his lungs in a harsh, greedy breath.

But the deep-rooted paranoia in his mind screamed at him. A threat. Someone is touching me.

Dominic's large hand shot out like a trap. His fingers clamped down around Cynthia's wrist with crushing, terrifying force.

Cynthia gasped, her face twisting in pain. The bones in her wrist ground together under his grip. "Let go," she hissed, her brow furrowing deeply.

The train suddenly lurched, the brakes engaging with a heavy screech. The automated voice over the intercom announced their imminent arrival at Penn Station.

Using the train's massive forward momentum, Cynthia yanked her arm back with all her strength.

Snap.

The fragile clasp of her bracelet broke. The thin silver chain slid off her skin and tangled itself tightly around Dominic's custom cufflink.

Footsteps pounded down the aisle. A train conductor and an armed transit officer rushed toward them, carrying a bright orange medical kit. Chaos erupted as passengers stood up to look.

Cynthia didn't hesitate. She grabbed her canvas bag, shoved the needle inside, and blended straight into the crowd of people moving toward the exit doors.

Dominic's heavy eyelids fluttered shut. As he slipped into an exhausted, drug-like sleep, his fingers curled inward, trapping the broken silver chain tightly in his palm.

Cynthia pushed open the heavy, carved wooden doors of the Bowers estate in Long Island. The air inside felt stagnant, thick with the smell of old money and impending death.

Brenda, a maid in a crisp uniform, was dusting a massive porcelain vase in the foyer. She saw Cynthia walk in, rolled her eyes, and pointed a lazy finger toward the second-floor staircase.

Cynthia ignored the blatant disrespect. She walked straight up the grand staircase, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her cheap sneakers. She pushed open the door to her uncle Almon's bedroom.

The stench of antiseptic hit her nose. Almon lay in the center of a massive bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his pale face. He slowly lifted a frail, trembling hand toward her.

"Cynthia..." his voice was a wet, rattling wheeze through the mask. "You have to... marry well. It's the only way... you survive in this house."

A sharp ache bloomed in Cynthia's chest. She stepped forward, grasping his cold, bony fingers in both of hers. "Don't worry about me, Uncle Almon. I'm fine."

The bedroom door clicked open. Inger, her aunt, strolled into the room. She held a porcelain teacup on a saucer, her posture perfectly rigid. She dabbed at her dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, a grotesque performance of grief.

Inger stepped up to the bed and tossed a glossy folder onto the mattress next to Cynthia. "It's settled," Inger said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You will marry Julian Astor."

Cynthia didn't touch the folder. She looked at the photo of the man on the cover. "Julian Astor has the mental capacity of a six-year-old. This isn't a marriage, Inger. You're selling me."

Inger's fake smile vanished. Her face hardened into a mask of pure cruelty. "The Bowers family does not feed useless mouths. You are a high school dropout from the mountains. You bring nothing to this table."

Cynthia stood up, her fists clenching at her sides. "I won't do it."

"Then I will pull the plug," Inger stated flatly.

Cynthia froze. Her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

"Almon's intensive care costs thousands of dollars a day," Inger continued, taking a slow sip of her tea. "If you refuse the Astor boy, I will cut off the funding tomorrow morning. Let's see how long he breathes without those machines."

The heart monitor beside the bed began to beep rapidly. Almon's chest heaved as panic set in.

Cynthia immediately placed her hand on her uncle's chest, pressing down gently to steady his breathing. She turned her head, fixing Inger with a stare so venomous it could kill.

Her fingernails dug into her own palms until the skin nearly broke. "Give me three days," Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "Three days to think about it."

Inger scoffed, turning on her heel. "Three days. Not a minute more." She walked out, leaving Cynthia trapped in a nightmare.

Miles away, in the glass-and-steel fortress of the Church Group headquarters in Manhattan, Dominic sat behind a massive mahogany desk. The city sprawled out beneath him through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He rolled the broken silver bracelet between his long fingers, the metal catching the harsh office light.

The heavy double doors of his office banged open. Eleonora, his grandmother, marched in. Her heels clicked furiously against the hardwood floor. She wore a pristine Chanel suit and a look of absolute fury.

Leo followed closely behind her, looking completely helpless. No one stopped the matriarch of the Church family.

Eleonora slammed a thick stack of dossiers onto Dominic's desk. The glossy photos of wealthy socialites spilled across the wood.

"You do nothing but work!" Eleonora shouted, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Pick one. Today. You are getting engaged."

Dominic didn't even glance at the photos. His jaw tightened. "I am not participating in a meaningless corporate breeding program, Grandmother."

Eleonora's hands shook with rage. "If you don't pick a wife, I will freeze every private trust fund in your name by midnight."

Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, his expression entirely deadpan. "Do it. I can live on my salary."

Seeing her threat fail, Eleonora gasped loudly. She clutched the fabric over her chest, her face contorting in fake agony, and collapsed onto the leather sofa. "Oh, my heart! You are killing me, Dominic! You want me dead!"

Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. A sharp headache pulsed behind his eyes. He hated this theatrical manipulation, but her actual heart condition made it impossible to completely ignore.

To shut down the performance, Dominic tossed the silver bracelet onto the center of the desk. It landed with a soft clink.

"I will only marry the woman who owns this," Dominic said, his voice cold and final.

Eleonora stopped wailing instantly. She sat up straight, her eyes locking onto the jewelry. She snatched it off the desk, examining the delicate links.

Dominic looked past her, his eyes locking onto his bodyguard. "Leo. You have three days to find the buyer of this limited-edition piece. Tear the city apart if you have to."

Leo nodded sharply and practically ran out of the room. The net was cast.

Three days later. The morning air in Long Island was crisp.

Cynthia stood in the glass greenhouse behind the Bowers estate. The heavy, bitter scent of medicinal herbs clung to her clothes. She carefully poured the dark, boiling liquid into a ceramic bowl. It was the final dose of the stabilizing compound for Almon.

A sudden, aggressive roar of multiple car engines shattered the quiet morning.

Cynthia frowned. She picked up the hot bowl, holding it carefully by the rim, and walked out of the greenhouse. She crossed the manicured lawn and stepped into the long, shadowed hallway of the main house.

Barnaby, the elderly butler, sprinted past her, his face flushed with sweat. "The Church family!" he gasped, out of breath. "The matriarch is here!"

Cynthia stopped at the edge of the hallway, keeping her body hidden in the shadows. She looked out into the grand living room.

Over a dozen men in black suits stood like statues around the perimeter. In the center, on the plush velvet sofa, sat Eleonora. Mountains of expensive gift boxes were piled on the floor around her.

Inger was practically vibrating with greed. She hovered over Eleonora, holding out a tray with a cup of Earl Grey tea, her face stretched into a sickeningly desperate smile.

Standing off to the side was Dominic. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and his face was a mask of pure, freezing indifference.

Eleonora waved away Inger's tea. She reached into her designer bag and slammed the broken silver bracelet onto the glass coffee table.

"Who in the Bowers family purchased this specific bracelet?" Eleonora demanded, her voice ringing with authority. "It is a limited edition, serial number 007."

Footsteps padded down the grand staircase. Celia, Cynthia's cousin, walked down wearing a silk nightgown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

She glanced at the coffee table and gasped. "Oh my god! That's mine! I just bought that last week!"

Eleonora shot up from the sofa. She grabbed Celia's hands, her eyes shining with tears. "My savior! You are the one!"

Celia blinked, completely bewildered by the sudden physical contact from this terrifyingly powerful old woman. "Savior?"

Dominic narrowed his eyes. His gaze swept over Celia like a laser scanner. He took in her messy hair, her confused posture, and the soft, weak line of her jaw.

No. His brain rejected it instantly. The woman on the train had a jawline carved from ice. She moved with lethal precision. This girl looked like she would cry if she broke a nail.

Standing in the shadows, Cynthia saw the bracelet. Her stomach dropped. She understood exactly what was happening. A cold, mocking smirk touched the corner of her lips.

Inger finally processed the words 'savior' and the presence of the Church family. Her eyes went wide with manic joy. She grabbed Celia by the shoulders and shoved her forcefully toward Dominic.

"Yes! My Celia is so brave! So kind-hearted!" Inger gushed, her voice shrill. "She is an angel!"

Dominic looked at Inger with open disgust. He turned his head slightly, giving Leo a subtle hand signal. Get the checkbook.

"The Church Group is prepared to offer the Bowers family a highly lucrative development contract as compensation for your... assistance," Dominic said, his tone making it clear he thought they were pathetic.

Eleonora slammed her hand down on Dominic's arm. "No! We are not paying them off! The Church family is here to announce a formal engagement to Celia!"

Several maids gasped. Inger looked like she was going to pass out from sheer ecstasy.

Celia peeked up at Dominic's devastatingly handsome face. A dark red blush crept up her neck, and she ducked her head, playing the role of the shy bride.

Dominic's fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He was furious at his grandmother's ambush.

In the hallway, Cynthia found the entire circus incredibly boring. She had no intention of stepping out and claiming credit. Getting tied to a paranoid billionaire was the last thing she needed while trying to protect her uncle.

She adjusted her grip on the hot bowl and turned to walk toward Almon's room.

As she pivoted, the hem of her sweater caught the edge of a tall brass plant stand. The metal scraped against the floor with a sharp, high-pitched screech.

Dominic's head snapped toward the dark hallway like a predator catching a scent.

Through the gloom, he caught a split-second glimpse of a woman's back. She wore a faded, oversized sweater. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders set in a straight, uncompromising line.

Dominic's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. A sudden, inexplicable surge of deep irritation and intense wariness seized his chest, as if something completely uncontrollable and dangerous had just breached his meticulously guarded field of vision.