I stepped out of the Hilton, neon light scoring my exhausted face. The city buzzed around me—honking cars, laughter from bars—but inside, I felt nothing.
Mr. Grant, my boss, had just left me standing in a wrinkled blouse and a heavy chest. My phone buzzed.
A notification: $6,000 deposited. Enough to make my heart pound—but no relief followed.
I’m Emily Carter, 28, an office assistant in Chicago. Married to Jake, a former mechanical engineer now paralyzed from the neck down after a crash two years ago. I’ve become his nurse, his provider, his everything. I’m running on fumes.
That morning, Mr. Grant called me into his office.
He watched me with unnerving alertness. “Emily,” he said. “Do you want to save your husband?”
I nodded. He slid a paper across: $6,000 in exchange for one night with him at a hotel.
I froze. Jake needed surgery; he wouldn’t survive six more months without it. We had no money. My hand trembled as I signed.
At the hotel, I shut down. Mr. Grant wasn’t cruel—almost gentle—but every moment felt like a blade to my soul. When it ended, he handed me an envelope: “You did good. He owes you his life.”
I fled home to Cicero, the scent of rice porridge welcoming me. Jake lay motionless. I spooned the porridge—lied, “I worked overtime. I’m just exhausted.” He nodded. No one asked.
Tears fell into my bowl.
Then another notification: $12,000 deposited. More hush money? A trap?
Next morning, I went to work. Mr. Grant had flown to New York at dawn. Relief, maybe—but anxiety lingered.
Then a message from an unknown number: “Emily, thank you for last night. I’m Jake—but not your Jake.”
My hand froze. I called—it disconnected. I raced home. Jake lay as before. “Do you know anything?” I asked softly.
He looked at me… and smiled.
“Emily,” he said. “Are you sure that man was your boss?”
I pulled out the contract. The signature read: Jake Harrison—my husband’s full name. And the deposits came from him, too.
Sleep abandoned me.
At 3 a.m., another message appeared: “Don’t look for me. Just use the money. Save him. He’s been through enough.”
I stared at $18,000 in my account.
This wasn’t the end.
Maybe the man I’ve cared for for two years… isn’t who I thought.