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As two weeks pass, I receive no updates from the Wife for Hire Agency. Panic begins to consume me. What if none of the potential candidates are interested in me? The thought of my overdue mortgage payments makes me scoff; every penny I have goes towards my research. At work, my friends notice that I'm only eating strawberries for lunch and insist on buying my meals for the rest of the week. I’m so hungry that I can't possibly turn down their offer. My life feels like it's spiraling out of control and desperation sets in. So, what do I do? I create a profile on a sugar baby website. Despite being thirty-one, I still look like I'm twenty-four. Perhaps I can find a sugar daddy to help cover some of my research costs this month.
On the drive home, my phone rings. “Wife for Hire Agency calling,” my Mercedes announces.
“Answer,” I order.
My heart is in my throat.
“Hello, Kinsley speaking.”
“Gail here, Kinsley. How are things?”
“I must admit, I'm feeling a bit anxious. I didn't think you would call.”
Her joyful laugh reverberates through the car. “Well, I have good news for you. We've found a perfect match.”
My eyebrows rise in surprise. “Only one?”
A wave of disappointment washes over me.
“We can always wait if you prefer,” she offers.
“But this suitor is incredibly generous and willing to fund your research immediately,” she assures me.
I exclaim, “That's amazing!”
“Can you make it in tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Yes, Gail, I’ll be there.” I end the call.
I let out a scream of excitement. “Hell yes!”
I can fund my mother’s research.
Don’t dwell on what your soon to be husband will look like. “Kinsley, it’s a short-term marriage. It will be over before you know it.
The next day, I sashay down the hallway in my red stilettos, feeling the cream dress cling to my curves. My knuckles tap against Gail's office door.
“Come in,” Gail calls out.
I push the door open. A man sits confidently in one of the chairs facing her desk. My stomach knots with anxiety as I enter, unsure of what to expect.
Gail stands. “Kinsley, I’d like you to meet your future husband...”
The man stands, turns to face me, and extends his hand.
“...Nickulas Pitucco,” she finishes.
My jaw drops in shock and disbelief. His lips curl into a mischievous smirk as he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it softly. A jolt runs through me at his touch. He can't be my future husband. Not him.
"The future Mrs. Pitucco," he declares with a grin on his handsome face.
I quickly pull my hand away from his grip, shaking my head in denial. "No, I'm not."
