My former classmate’s father offered me $500 a day to pretend I loved his daughter after a devastating accident left her refusing to live. I agreed for my daughter’s medical bills. Months later, after he died, Connie called me to the hospital and revealed a secret that changed everything.
The fluorescent lights above the pharmacy counter buzzed like something dying. I stood there counting crumpled bills for the third time, knowing the math would not change.
Lily’s next surgery was eleven days away, and I was $2000 short.
I shoved the money back into my pocket and pushed through the sliding doors into the cold parking lot.
“Daniel, I’ll pay you $500 a day if you visit my daughter and pretend to love her,” a voice said behind me.
I turned around.
A stern, silver haired stranger stood there in a perfectly tailored dark coat. It took me a moment to recognize him.
The father of my former classmate, Connie.
I let out a nervous laugh. “That’s a very strange way to scam somebody, sir.”
He did not smile. He just unzipped the leather bag at his side and tilted it toward me.
Inside were stacks of fresh hundred dollar bills, wrapped in clean bank bands.
My throat went dry.
“You know my name,” I said. “How do you know my name?”
“I know more than your name, Daniel. I know about Lily. I know about the hospital bills. I know you graduated three years ago and have been working double shifts ever since.”
I took a step back. “That’s not creepy at all.”
“My daughter hasn’t gotten out of bed since the accident her ex boyfriend caused,” he said quietly. “She won’t eat. She won’t speak to me. I want her to live. You went to school with her. She mentioned you once, kindly. That is enough.”
“Sir, I can’t just walk into a hospital room and lie to a woman who is hurting.”
“Why me?”
“Because you need the money, and because you are still kind. I checked.”
A car horn blared somewhere on the street. I felt the cold cut through my jacket.
“This is wrong,” I said.
That sentence landed somewhere I could not defend.
I thought about Lily’s small hands and the way she had stopped asking when she could ride a bike again. I thought about the surgeon’s receptionist who no longer met my eyes.
“How long?” I heard myself ask.
“Until she wants to live again. A week. A month. I do not know.”
“And if she figures it out?”
What happened next changed everything… continues on the next page.
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