Thirty Days To Marry: The Doctor's Escape

The pounding in Amira's head was a physical weight, a dull, rhythmic thud that seemed to push against the back of her eyes. She kept them closed, trying to bargain with her own physiology, but the sunlight slicing through the blinds was relentless. It wasn't the soft, filtered light of the master bedroom. It was the harsh, direct glare that hit the guest room on the east side of the penthouse.

She was in the guest room again.

The realization settled in her stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. She rolled over, the expensive sheets tangling around her legs, and fumbled blindly for her phone on the nightstand. She needed to check the time. She needed to know how much longer she had before the rest of the apartment woke up and demanded her existence.

Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the device. She brought it to her face, squinting as the screen illuminated.

10:15 AM.

Below the time, a single notification sat on the lock screen. It was from a messaging app she rarely used, encrypted and private. The sender's name was Carleton Schmitt.

Amira stared at the name. It felt foreign, like a word she had heard once in a dream and forgotten. Schmitt was a common enough name, the German equivalent of Smith, but this specific person was a complete blank. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. A sudden wave of nausea rolled through her, unrelated to the cheap wine she had consumed the night before.

She unlocked the phone.

I accept your proposal. Let's sign in a month.

The words blurred. Amira sat up, the room spinning slightly. She racked her brain, trying to pierce the fog of the hangover. Last night. Aunt Rosa's cramped apartment in Queens. The smell of garlic and old fabric softener. Rosa's voice, sharp and pitying.

He's been dragging you along for eight years, mija. You're thirty. No ring. No house in your name. Just a glorified roommate.

She remembered the wine. A lot of it. She remembered Rosa showing her a picture on an old tablet. My neighbor's grandson. Carleton. Good boy. Boring job, some kind of actuary with numbers, but he has insurance. He needs a wife to get his family off his back. You need a life.

And then, the memory hit her with the force of a physical blow. She remembered typing the message. She had been angry, her thumbs flying over the keypad with a vindictive speed, fueled by the image of Ethan smiling at a camera with Delisa Conrad on his arm.

If you need a wife and I need a life, let's just marry. I'm a doctor. I'm clean. I cook. I just need out.

She stared at the screen now. I accept.

Panic clawed at her throat. This was insanity. She didn't know this man. Carleton Schmitt. An actuary. A man who crunched numbers for a living while she stitched up patients at St. Augustine's. She couldn't marry a