A stranger called husband

Amara's POV

They say you can ask for help when you need it. That’s the rule, right? Somewhere, somehow, a door will open if you just knock hard enough.

Yeah, well, I've knocked, kicked, headbutted, and even tried sweet-talking the metaphorical door, but apparently, the universe has decided to leave me on read.

The bursary office smells like toner and frustration. A fan swings side to side on the ceiling, doing absolutely nothing to help the heat.

I sit in front of the woman at the desk, a permanent frown etched on her face like she’s been personally victimized by my existence. Her glasses dangle from a chain around her neck, and every now and then, she peers over them like she’s judging my soul.

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

My heart plummets.

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

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

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

"Please," I say, trying not to sound desperate even though I absolutely am. "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 looks up, and for a second, I think I see a flicker of sympathy. But it passes like a cloud. "I understand, but there’s nothing I can do. The system is what it is."

I want to scream. Or cry. Or both. But I don’t. Instead, I stand up like my legs don’t feel like melting and nod like my whole life hasn’t just hit another dead-end.

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

I step outside into the harsh sunlight. The heat slaps me like it’s personal. My backpack digs into my shoulders, and my phone buzzes with a reminder from the hospital app:

Daily payment pending: $82.60. Eighty-two dollars. Just for today. I scroll through my banking app. Balance: $3.72. I can afford half a coffee. I sit on the campus steps and try not to cry.

My mom always said crying is good, like a cleanse. But she also says life gets easier if you just work hard enough. She’s wrong about that one, so maybe she’s wrong about crying too.

"You look like someone just kicked your puppy," a voice says. I look up, squinting against the sun.

A man stands a few feet away, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that looks too expensive to be real. Like something straight off a runway. Or a villain’s closet.

He’s tall. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. No smile. Definitely not a student.

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

"Not yet."

He moves 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 ignores the question and extends 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 blink at him. "Is this a new type of scam? Because I’m one bad day away from throwing hands."

His lips twitch. 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 stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

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

He tilts his head, eyes scanning my face like he can read every thought. "Marriage."

I choke. Actually choke. Cough like my lungs forget 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 laugh. Like, full-on borderline hysterical.

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

He doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t.

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

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

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

He looks at me like I’m the one asking silly questions. "I’m the only option you have left."

And then he turns and walks away. Just like that. I sit there, clutching the folder like it’s a bomb, watching him disappear into a sleek black car that screams villain energy. Tinted windows. No license plate I can read.

Am I hallucinating? Is this real life? I open the folder again.

There it is. In clean, terrifying print: Spousal Agreement Contract. Term: 12 Months. Payment: $500,000 per month. I almost faint. My brain says: scam. Run.

But my phone buzzes again. “Zina's fever is back.” The nurse says she needs a transfusion by tomorrow. And just like that, my world snaps back into focus.

I look at the folder. One year. No touching. No love. Just a signature. How bad could it be?

Amara's POV

You ever wake up and just know your life has officially spiraled into a flaming dumpster fire?

Because same.

I woke up the next morning to my sister coughing like her lungs were trying to evacuate her body. The hospital bill from yesterday was lying on my chest like a toxic boyfriend I couldn’t block. It felt like it was staring at me with squinted eyes, whispering, “You’re broke, sis. Give up.”

Zina had barely eaten dinner last night, and even though she was putting on her brave face, I could tell she was exhausted. Pale. Weak. She’d tried to pretend she wasn’t in pain, but I knew. I always knew.

I stand in the cramped kitchen staring at a cracked bowl of soaked cereal—my “invention breakfast” for the week—thinking: Wow. This is how villains get made. Or maybe desperate heroines in dark romance novels. Either way, I’m cooked.

My fingers graze the back pocket of my jeans—the same jeans I’d worn for two days straight. And there it is.