Chapter Two

Lily's POV:

The buzz of my alarm jolted me awake, but I didn’t need it. My eyes were already open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sleeping has become impossible since yesterday. 

How could I possibly rest when the strange man’s words kept playing on a loop in my head?

After our bizarre conversation in the hospital lobby, I tried to return to the restaurant, but Jasmine insisted I go home to gather my thoughts and rest. "You look like a ghost." She said, shooing me off with her apron in hand.

Rest? How was that possible?

“Would you like to marry Lucas Hawke?” He asked.

I scoffed out loud, even now, chuckling bitterly at the memory. Was this some kind of joke? Some weird social experiment? Or was I a protagonist in a web novel where the scandal-ridden CEO needs a fake wife to redeem his name?

At the time, I waited for him to laugh and admit it was a prank. But no. His face remained stern, his gaze piercing. He meant every word.

“Wait, you’re serious?” I asked him.

Dead silence.

I clasped my hands over my mouth, trying to process everything. Twenty-five million dollars—just to play the role of a pretend wife.

That kind of money could change everything.

I could pay off Papa’s debts, move us into a decent apartment, and finally open my own art studio. A space of my own where I could create art freely, teach aspiring artists, and share my passion with hobbyists and students.

It was the dream I’d clung to for years.

But reality hit me hard. What kind of father would want to hear that his daughter got married just to settle debts? And not a real marriage—no, this was a contract marriage. 

I’d read enough books and seen enough stories to know how these things ended: In tears, drama, and regret.

And then there was the man himself. Not just anyone—The Lucas Hawke. A man the media had painted as ruthless, cold, and just earlier, a potential psychopath.

I shook my head, forcing myself to speak. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested. I may be helpless, but I’m not desperate.”

I stood up, ready to leave, but before I could walk away, his hand reached out, stopping me.

“Where’s the camera? This has to be a skit, right? Am I being punked?” I glanced around, hoping for someone to pop out and yell, Gotcha! Instead, he pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me.

“If you change your mind, call me.” He said. And then he turned and walked back into the hospital, speaking into his phone.

“I’ve found someone perfect for the role.” His words echoed in my mind as I stared at the card he had given me.

That night, for the first time in a year, I called my boss and asked for a day off. 

Not even when my dad was hospitalized did I allow myself the luxury of stepping back. But I couldn’t face the world after that encounter.

Now, the card sat on my bedside table. I reached for it, hesitated, and then pulled my hand back.

No.

Instead, I dragged myself out of bed, brushing my teeth and throwing on some clothes before heading to the kitchen. Pancakes and coffee seemed like the only thing I could digest this morning. After breakfast, I rushed to the basement to finish a commission for an elderly woman I’d met at the hospital. 

She wanted a custom painting for her granddaughter, and every dollar counted right now.

When I finally completed the piece, I called her to ask where to deliver it. She texted me an address within minutes, and I booked a cab to her estate.

I used to live here. Not just in this estate—this exact house. My dad and I used to laugh and play in this place before the bank seized it. Now, I was delivering a painting to its new occupants.

The uniformed guard at the gate led me to the front door, and a maid ushered me into the living room. 

Memories flooded my mind. My Dad, chasing me around the halls. Me sneaking paint onto every wall I could find, only to be punished with a plate of vegetables. He always knew I’d eat them without complaint because I never planned to stop painting the walls.

“Ah, you’re here.” Mrs. Smith said, pulling me out of my thoughts. She was seated on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve brought the painting.”

We exchanged pleasantries, and I handed over the wrapped canvas. Just as I was about to leave, a familiar voice made my stomach churn.

“Grandma, who’s this?”

Bethany.

My former best friend and current nightmare.

Bethany Hamilton was once my closest friend, my rock during the chaos of high school and college. But when my dad’s company went bankrupt, she turned on me. She laughed at my misfortune, spreading rumors and ensuring I felt every ounce of her hatred.

“Oh, this is the artist I told you about.” Mrs. Smith replied.

Bethany’s smile widened as she took a step closer. “Oh, you mean the one you pitied? The one who looked so tired and desperate? So you decided to pay her 300,000 dollars for a mere painting.”

My hands clenched into fists. Mrs. Smith scolded her, but the damage was done.

“I should get going.” I mumbled, placing the painting on the couch and heading for the door.

Bethany followed me, draping her arm over my shoulder. Her perfume was sickly sweet, just like her tone.

“Did you change your number?” She asked.

“I didn't.” I replied, curtly.

“Did you block me, Lily? I swear, we tried calling you, but your number just vanished!”

“No.” I said curtly.

“Oh, maybe we didn’t call after all.” She said, laughing. “Anyway, there’s a high school reunion next Thursday. You should come.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

She grabbed my wrist as I reached for the door. “At least give me your number again. I think I deleted it by mistake.”

I yanked my arm free and bolted. By the time I reached the gate, my chest was heaving.

That’s when it happened.

I stepped off the curb, my thoughts elsewhere, when the screech of tires jolted me back to reality. A red sports car came to a halt, mere inches from my legs.