Chapter 2: "Let Her In"
Amanda's POV
"You're joking?"
Linda didn't smile. She just looked at me. "My employer," she said, "is looking for someone to be a mother to his son."
Someone pushed a cart past the door, the wheels sending a low, dull rumble echoing down the corridor. I sat there, turning her words over in my head, and still couldn't make sense of them.
"Charles Morrison." Linda continued, her voice as warm as a legal document. "CEO of Morrison Tech. Forbes top ten. You've heard of him."
I had. Everyone had.
"Two years ago, his wife died." She paused. "She left behind a son with autism. The boy needs a mother."
I frowned. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything."
She said it without hesitation, like she'd had the answer ready for a long time.
"You need money. That child needs a mother. Charles doesn't need love or romance—he needs a contract wife." Her tone stayed even, businesslike, the way you'd lay out a business proposal. "You move into his estate, spend time with the boy, take care of him. Once Charles has fully secured his business empire, you walk away with your money. That's all there is to it."
My fingers tightened against my knees.
"Five hundred thousand dollars upfront," she said. "Plus ten thousand a month for living expenses. After a few years, you divorce. The money is yours, your freedom is yours, and Emma gets everything she needs." She paused. "Everyone wins."
My heart started beating faster. Fast enough that I noticed it.
But I still asked.
"Why me?"
Linda was quiet for a second.
"You can call it charity if you want," she said. "Or you can understand that if you become Mrs. Morrison, my position at the company becomes a lot more secure." She met my eyes. "This benefits me too. I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart."
I didn't say anything.
She straightened up and reached for her bag.
"Think it over carefully. My time is expensive—I can't sit here waiting for you. Message me when you've made up your mind."
She stood, turned, walked two steps, then stopped and looked back at me. "Amanda."
I raised my head.
"Don't you dare let that waste of space break you." Her voice stayed even. "When you were three years old, you climbed to the top of a tree and announced you were going to be president. I remember that clearly."
She paused.
"You're thirty-one. Your life has barely started. Take the opening and make something of it. End of story."
The sound of her heels faded down the corridor and disappeared.
I sat there, staring at the floor, listening to my own heartbeat.
Less than ten minutes after Linda left, a nurse came to find me.
Emma needed to be admitted immediately. Pediatric ICU. A fifty-thousand-dollar deposit required upfront.
Before I could say a word, the nurse said, "The woman who came with you has already covered it. You can't see the child right now—you're welcome to go home and rest."
The nurse was busy. She said it and left.
I stood there feeling like I was moving through a dream. Things like this didn't happen to people like me. Except—apparently—they did.
Seven years ago, I hadn't had this kind of choice. I knew what that had cost me. Now the chance was here. All I had to do was say yes—and Emma lives.
For Emma. For myself. I had to try. It wasn't even that complicated—if someone asked me to do almost anything else, I might have doubted myself. But being a mother? That I could do. I was certain of it. I didn't need to think of this as a new marriage. I knew exactly what it was. A job. I would treat it like a job.
I texted Linda.
I'll do it.
Her reply came fast. One line.
I'll pick you up in three days.
I didn't go back to Jason's. I slept in a chair in the hospital waiting area that night. The next morning, I mailed him the divorce papers.
I expected him to fight it. To call and scream at me, to threaten me, to try to use Emma as leverage.
But he didn't say a word. The signed papers came back in the mail one day later. He even paid for the shipping.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe something else. I didn't want to spend any more time figuring it out. Six years, and just like that, it was over.
The Morrison estate was on the outskirts of the city. During the drive out, I watched through the window the whole way—iron gates, manicured lawns, oak trees lining the driveway, tall enough that they swallowed half the sky.
Linda sat in the front seat, leaning back, scrolling through her phone, not saying anything.
When the car stopped, I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the gravel drive.
There were about a dozen women standing in the open space in front of the estate entrance.
Every single one of them looked like she'd spent hours preparing. Flawless makeup, outfits that wore their price tags invisibly. They stood in small clusters, voices low, but I was close enough to catch pieces of what they were saying.
"He's got a kid with autism—just hand him off to a professional nanny. It's not like you'd actually have to raise him yourself."
"Exactly. What matters is getting Charles to notice you. Don't waste energy worrying about the kid."
"He hasn't shown up in public in ages. No idea what he even looks like anymore, but with that kind of money..."
I looked down at myself.
I was still wearing the cotton jacket I'd had on at the hospital, washed so many times the color had faded to almost nothing, paired with sneakers and hair pulled back without a second thought. No makeup, nothing on my face. Their perfume drifted over—expensive, subtle, the kind that lingers.
One of them glanced my way, then looked back.
I took a slow breath and tugged at the hem of my jacket. It didn't help.
The glass door on the second-floor balcony opened.
The courtyard went quiet, and every head tilted up at once.
A man stepped out and stood at the edge of the balcony, one hand resting on the railing, looking down at the courtyard below. The distance was too great to make out his face clearly—only his outline. Tall, broad shoulders, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. His posture was unhurried, almost careless.
He scanned the group below.
One pass. A pause of a few seconds. Then he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but in the sudden silence of the courtyard, it carried perfectly.
"Let her in."
No one moved.
I thought I'd misheard. I looked left and right. The women around me were looking at each other too. Nobody stepped forward.
Then I understood why nobody moved. The "her" he'd said—it wasn't any of them.
The estate's front door opened. The butler stepped out.
His pace was steady—neither hurried nor hesitant. His shoes pressed into the gravel with each step, each one deliberate and measured. He moved through the assembled women without glancing at any of them, gaze forward, walking in a straight line.
The silence around me pulled taut. I could feel it—that fine, breathless tension, everyone waiting, everyone watching, the butler still walking, still walking—
He stopped in front of me.
Directly in front of me.
He inclined his head, a precise and unhurried bow, as though the matter had been decided long before any of them had set foot on the grounds.
"Ms. Moore," he said. "Mr. Morrison would like to see you."
He turned to address the rest of the women. "For all other guests—we sincerely apologize. You're free to go home."
