“My daughter needs a mother,” he says coldly.
“In what sense?”
“A fake,” she explains reluctantly. “For a few months, while the court disputes with my wife are ongoing.”
“But that’s cruel…” I blink in confusion.
“Cruelty is if she wins the case and takes the daughter to herself,” he snaps.
“But she’s her mother.”
“Her real mother died a few years ago.”
“I don’t understand anything,” I shake my head.
“And you don’t need to. I stated the terms. Do you still need money?”
You do, very much. And he knows it.
He is a cold-blooded lawyer, fighting for a daughter.
I am a waitress, dreaming of earning money for my sister’s surgery.
A deal that works for both of us.
A family that will never be.
And feelings that none of us planned for.