The whiplash made me dizzy. Undisguised disgust on one hand, a marriage contract on the other.
"Are you joking?" I heard my voice come out dry and hollow, as abnormal as this whole Kirill-proposing situation.
"I don't have time to come here just to joke with you." His voice was cold and businesslike. "You can view this as a suitable transaction."
Transaction.
"Why me?" I finally asked, my voice trembling slightly beyond my control. "If this is a transaction, you have so many choices. Those socialites, or models—they're prettier than me, more polished, and definitely know better how to make you happy."
Kirill glanced at me, his eyes utterly cold. "It's not that complicated. I need a wife to shut Olga up, and you've cleverly won her favor. Isn't this whatyou wanted?"
He thought I'd planned this. Thought I'd gotten close to Olga, endured her bad temper, watched those ancient Russian films with her, read her newspapers she couldn't even understand—all for this moment. He thought I'd calculated everything, waiting for this rich old lady to give me something.
I knew what I looked like to him now. A woman who'd sell anything for money. But since I already had enough for Aiden's surgery, I had no reason to endure his malicious assumptions anymore.
"I'm not merchandise." I took a deep breath, forcing my spine straight. "I don't need this fake marriage."
Anger gave me strength. I pushed back my chair to stand.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Orlov."
But the moment I turned, tears threatened to spill.
How could he do this—mock me so carelessly, then demand I accept his damn transaction? Maybe this was his way of saying: Sure, I'm proposing, but not one word is voluntary. Look what a tasteless fat girl you are. Give up your ridiculous fantasies now.
I struggled to hold back the tears, trying to preserve one last shred of dignity.
"Before you leave," Kirill's voice stopped me. He seemed to reach out, tapping a finger on a specific line of the document. "Look at this clause first."
His voice was calm, yet carried a devil's temptation. I couldn't help turning back, obediently dropping my gaze to the line his finger indicated.
Will immediately assume all medical expenses for Aiden Evans, including but not limited to heart transplant surgery, post-operative anti-rejection treatment, and rehabilitation care for the next five years, ensuring S-class nursing care.
My breath stopped.
Yes, that hundred thousand was enough for surgery. But the doctor's words yesterday echoed like alarm bells in my head—"Surgery's just the first step. The aftercare, that's the real bottomless pit."
On my nursing salary alone, I couldn't afford decent care, much less those astronomical ongoing costs.
Surgery could keep Aiden alive, but then what? How would he keep living? Like a broken thing in a cheap ward waiting to die?
How could I do that to him? He'd already suffered enough.
"You know it," Kirill said, watching my frozen body, certain I'd wavered. He continued, "This is a reasonable transaction."
My brain started racing, weighing the pros and cons.
Wasn't this the best outcome for Aiden and me? Aiden could live—not just survive, but get the best treatment. He could even live like a normal boy, go to school, run around, have a life he'd never had before.
I couldn't refuse this deal that would save Aiden.
I stole a glance at that cold man.
How ironic. God had played the cruelest joke on me. I was about to marry the only man I'd ever secretly loved.
But only as a tool.
I slowly placed my bag on my lap and sat up straight again.
