The city didn't just rain tonight. It wept.
Maya Cole tugged her worn coat tighter around her shoulders as the downpour soaked her to the skin. The last bus never showed, and her phone had died hours ago. Just her luck. Again. She sighed and started walking—one foot in front of the other, heels clicking softly on the wet pavement.
And then she heard it. A loud screech. The thundering crash of metal against stone.
She turned sharply.
A black car had slammed into a lamp post just ahead, steam hissing from the hood, smoke curling into the dark sky. Maya rushed forward without thinking, heart pounding. The driver's door was ajar. Inside, slumped over the wheel, was a man.
"Hey!" she shouted, yanking open the door. "Are you—?"
No answer. Blood trickled down his temple. His face, even under the bruises, looked hauntingly beautiful. Sharp jawline. Expensive suit. Eyes shut, breathing shallow.
She checked for a pulse—thank God, he was alive.
"I need to get you out of here," she whispered.
Ten minutes later, Maya stood in the private backroom of an underground clinic, the man laid out on a stretcher, the nurse stitching a gash on his brow.
"You sure about this?" the nurse asked. "No ID, no name. This could be trouble."
Maya nodded. "He needs help. That's all I know."
When they asked for a contact number, she lied. Left a fake one. Then walked out.
She'd done her part. Whoever he was, he'd live.
Three days later
Maya's tiny studio apartment barely held her and her broken dreams. She stirred her coffee, ignoring the stack of overdue bills on her counter. Her stomach growled. She had twenty-three rand in her bank account and no plan.
A knock at the door.
She opened it—and froze.
There he stood.
Clean suit. No blood. Hair slicked back. A presence that filled the doorway like a shadow. His eyes locked onto hers.
"You're a hard woman to find," he said. "May I come in?"
Maya hesitated. "You're… the man from the car."
"Elias Vale," he said smoothly, stepping inside uninvited. "You saved my life. I'd like to return the favor."
Her guard went up instantly. "I don't want anything from you."
"But I want something from you."
He reached into his coat, pulled out a folder, and laid it on the table between them. Maya opened it—and her hands trembled.
A contract.
Marriage. One year. Full debt repayment. Discretion mandatory.
She looked up, shocked. "Is this a joke?"
His gaze was steady. "Marry me. Pretend to be my wife. You'll be rich. Free. Safe."
"Why me?"
He gave her the faintest smile. One that didn't reach his eyes.
"Because I don't trust anyone else."