Page 11 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

“Elena!”

I turn to see Justin jogging toward me, his sandy hair flopping over his forehead. He’s wearing a pale blue button-down that matches his eyes perfectly, which is probably not a coincidence.

“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile. Justin is nice enough if a bit intense about his class ranking. He’s been second to my first since our first year, and he’s never quite gotten over it.

“You okay? You seemed distracted in there.” He falls into step beside me as I head toward the exit.

“Just tired.”

“Big night?” His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it. Justin has asked me out three times since we started med school, and I’ve said no three times.

“Big case load at the hospital,” I lie.

We push through the doors into the bright afternoon sunlight. Justin shifts his messenger bag and gives me what I’m sure he thinks is his most charming smile.

“Want me to walk you home?”

I tighten my grip on my bag. “No, thanks.”

His smile falters. “You sure? It’s on my way.”

It’s not on his way. His apartment is in the opposite direction.

“I’m sure.” My tone is firmer than I intended, but I’m too exhausted to care. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Maybe another time then?”

I don’t answer, just give a noncommittal shrug and turn away. I don’t have the energy to deal with Justin’s persistence today. He probably means well, but I’ve had enough of men who think they know what’s best for me.

As I walk toward the bus stop, my phone buzzes with a text from Liv.

Any luck with the alumni fund?

I type back:No. They’re tapped out for the semester.

Her response comes quickly:Shit. What’s Plan B?

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What is Plan B with the tuition due by close of business today? I’ve called every family friend, checked every scholarship and emergency fund, and now face the very real possibility that tomorrow—since today is a Thursday, and I figure they won’t catch me attending class until at least Monday?—

is my last day of med school until I can get a FAFSA filed and get funds by next semester. Before that, I need to find a job either way.

I’m out of immediate options that will keep me in school uninterrupted.

Still working on it,I text back.

The bus arrives, and I climb aboard, finding a seat near the back. As the city slides by outside the window, I can’t stop thinking about Damir’s offer. A business arrangement, he’d called it. A simple transaction.

Nothing about Damir seems simple. The way he looked at me, like he could see right through me and knew exactly how desperate I was, makes me uneasy. What does he really want? And why me?

I pull out my phone again and search his name as Liv did last night. Dozens of articles pop up—business profiles, charity galas, and tech industry news. In every photo, he looks impeccable, powerful, and untouchable. There’s not a single personal detail beyond basic biographical information. No mention of family, relationships, or hobbies. Nothing that explains why a billionaire would need a fake wife.

The bus stops a block from our apartment, and I get off, my mind still churning. I have until tomorrow to come up with nearly twenty thousand dollars, or my medical career is over before it’s begun. All those years of study, all my mother’s sacrifices, and all my sacrifices will be wasted, or at least deferred, because I trusted the wrong person.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Liv.

Don’t kill me, but I’ve been thinking about that creepy billionaire’s offer.

I stop walking, staring at the message. Before I can respond, another text appears.

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