Viola 's POV
The hospital comes into view; cold, familiar, and a little too bright.
I thank the driver, step out, and walk into the lobby like I do it every day.
Because I do.
Room 603. I know the path by heart.
When I push the door open, my mom is half-asleep, propped up in bed under a soft pastel blanket.
The beeping of her heart monitor is the only sound in the room.
"Viola," she murmurs without opening her eyes. "You're late. I was beginning to think you found a handsome doctor and left me to die."
I roll my eyes, letting my purse drop onto the chair. "Nice to see you too, Mom."
She opens her eyes, her gaze bright with mischief and pats the bed. "Get over here, Lovie. Let me see your face."
My mom, Grace Munroe. Fifty-two. Fierce and funny, always smiling even if things were awful. She had been diagnosed with mitral valve regurgitation three years ago.
Now, her heart's giving up, and time's running out.
"Still looking tired," she says, cupping my cheek. "You need more sleep. And less stress. And a boyfriend."
"Okay, well, two out of three are currently unavailable."
She squints at me. "Which one is available?"
"Stress."
She lets out a laugh that turns into a cough. My heart seizes, but she waves me off before I can reach for the water.
"Don't look at me like that. I've had a good run."
"Nope. You don't get to say that." I tug the blanket higher over her legs. "Not until you've cried at my wedding. Front row. Ugly tears."
"Oh, so now you're getting married?" She teases, brushing her own blonde hair out of her eyes.
"Didn't say soon," I mutter, then smile softly. "But you don't need to worry anymore. Things are… changing. For the better."
She eyes me. "What happened?"
I shrug. "Got offered a weird job. One that pays well." I say casually.
Her eyes narrow further. "What kind of job?" She sounds suspicious. I try not to shift under her all seeing gaze, feeling like I'm five and just stole a cookie from the tin.
"The kind where I pretend to date a billionaire." I whisper haltingly.
There's a beat of silence. Then she throws her head back and cackles.
"That's a good one Lovie!" Grace crows in delight. The woman sounds absolutely hysterical.
"Mom!" I whine, a little offended, " I can have a rich boyfriend if I want to! I am a catch you know."
I pout at her, miffed beyond belief.
"Well," she says between chuckles, clearly not believing me, "if he's tall, rich, and doesn't chew with his mouth open, I approve."
I roll my eyes at her, "You're incorrigible."
"And you're too sweet," she whispers, reaching out to take my hand. "Don't let him, whoever he is, walk all over you."
I squeeze her fingers, watching the steady blip of her heart monitor. Something in me settles.
I can do this.
I will do this. For her I would do anything.
Even if my fake boyfriend is unreadable, insufferably handsome, and kind of makes my heart do weird things.
***
(Three days later)
I can't do this.
There's only so much scrolling a girl can do before she feels her brain start to liquefy.
I sigh dramatically, flopping onto my bed with the weight of a thousand years of boredom pressing on my chest.
I think I've counted all the tiles in my one-bedroom apartment.
Even the garish floral wallpaper, bright pink peonies splashed across a pale yellow background, was starting to look like it was mocking me as I stared at it.
"Ugh, I'm going to lose it," I mutter before turning on my back to stare at the ceiling while kicking off my fuzzy slippers.
Being jobless is… weird. I'm not used to it. Sure, Garrett said in the contract that I wouldn't have to worry about bills or rent or groceries and that everything would be "handled."
And sure, it's kind of a dream come true not having to work for a paycheck.
But I've always had a job, always had something to do. Something to be proud of, even if it was just cleaning tables or manning the cash register.
Now, I just… exist.
No purpose. No direction.
I groan and bury my face into the pillows. I feel like a lump.
An unemployed, useless lump.
Who knew being a sugar baby would be such an uneventful experience? Not me.
Visiting my mother every morning can only go so far and the older woman had already tried to set me up on a date with three different nurses.
I had to- No I needed something to do or else I would go mad.
With a burst of sudden determination, probably the most action I've had all morning, I sit up and rummage through my purse.
Garrett, the suave, mysterious man, had slipped a card into my bag last time we met at his suite.
I hadn't even noticed until I got home and unpacked.
I stare at the pristine white card, his name embossed in sleek silver lettering: Garrett Moreau. Of course it's fancy.
Of course it's tasteful.
Everything about him is like that.
Still blushing, I pull out my phone, punch in the number, and before I can talk myself out of it, hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
"Viola," he answers smoothly, his lilting voice making my toes curl. "Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
My voice stutters like a faulty engine. "I, uh. Hi. Yeah. Hi."
There's a pause, and I swear I can hear the bemusement in his silence.
"You okay?" he asks, tone teasing. "You sound like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine!" I blurt out. "I mean, yes. Fine. Totally fine. Not nervous or anything."
"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound like he believes, and I feel like crawling under the bed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I chew my lip. "I… I was wondering if you could help me find a job." I manage to whisper.
Another pause.
"You want a job?" He repeats, voice a little more chilly than before.
"Yeah. I mean, you said I wouldn't have to work, and that's… really kind of you, and I'm grateful. But I feel weird just sitting around doing nothing. I've always worked, and being idle is driving me nuts."
"Good," he says simply, tone back to it's serene quality.
"…Good?" I parrot uncertainly.
I can almost see him nod as he replies.
"Its nice that you're not the type to sit around."
I blink. "Um. Thanks?"
"I'll make a call. There's a business partner of mine, owns a modeling agency downtown. I'll get you an audition."
I nearly drop the phone. "Wait, what?"
"Modeling. You know, runways, cameras, skimpy outfits. All that." He says flippantly.
"I can't be a model!"
I shriek. "Are you insane?"
"No, I'm Garrett," he replies dryly. "And yes, you can."
"I'm a total klutz! I trip over flat surfaces! I'm not- "
"You're stunning."