The Billionaire's $20 Million Contract Wife

Amanda's POV

I slapped my husband across the face.

Jason—that pathetic excuse for a husband—had gambled away every dollar we had in a single night. That money was our daughter Emma's lifeline.

The sound was loud. Loud enough that I froze for a second after I did it. Jason's head snapped to one side and stayed there. I was still holding my phone, the account balance on the screen reading zero.

I'd refreshed it five times. Still zero.

A hundred thousand dollars. Five years.

Gone.

My legs gave out. My knees hit the cold tile floor. I braced myself with both hands, head down, something lodged in my throat that I couldn't swallow and couldn't cry out.

Five years ago, when Emma was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, the doctor said the surgical window was around age five—the sooner the better. I sat alone in the hospital parking lot and cried for a long time that day. Then I wiped my face and went back to work.

Convenience store, restaurant, weekend cleaning crew—three jobs, sometimes fourteen hours on my feet without a break. By the time I got home at night, my feet were so swollen I could barely peel my socks off. Every single dollar went into that account. Untouched.

We had the surgeon booked. One month out. And now the money was gone.

"Amanda, listen to me," Jason finally said, keeping his voice low. "I was on a losing streak, but I can feel it turning around. I just need—"

"She has surgery next month."

"I know, but—"

"Jason." I looked up at him. "She has surgery next month."

He shut up. But his eyes drifted sideways—that familiar slide, the one where his gaze never quite landed on my face whenever he was trying to avoid something.

I pushed myself off the floor. My knees were still shaking. I ignored them. I walked to the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it over my face. The person in the mirror had red-rimmed eyes. Thirty-one years old, but she looked a decade older.

I took a breath and turned around.

"So what are we going to do."

It wasn't a question.

Jason shrugged. He actually shrugged. "Wait till I win it back. Emma's fine for now, she's—"

I stared at him like I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Congenital heart disease. She's five."

"Children are resilient—she'll pull through," he said, his voice as breezy as if he were commenting on the weather. "And besides, if she doesn't make it—" He sighed. "Look, we're still young. Once I win the money back, we can have as many kids as we want."

I stared at him for three full seconds.

I had been married to this man for six years. And somehow, it had taken until this moment to see exactly who he was.

Emma's crying came through the wall. It was faint. Strained. Like she barely had the energy left to cry at all.

I didn't have the energy to fight him anymore. I turned and walked straight to Emma's room, pushed open the door.

She was curled up in the corner of her bed, her little face flushed deep red, her lips cracked and dry. I reached out and touched her forehead. Burning—so hot my hand jerked back before I pressed it against her again.

"Emma. Mommy's here."

She opened her eyes. They were unfocused, glassy. She looked at me like she didn't know who I was.

I walked back out. "She's running a fever. You were home all day. How did you not notice?"

Jason didn't look up from his screen. "I was busy."

"I'm calling an ambulance."

"For what?" He waved a hand. "Kids get fevers; it's normal. Go buy her a popsicle from downstairs, cool her down. Do you have any idea what an ambulance costs? We're already—"

I picked up his laptop off the table. I slammed it down.

Two thousand dollars. Gone the moment it hit the floor.

The screen shattered. Several keys flew off the keyboard. Jason shot to his feet, his face going white. "Are you out of your mind?!"

I didn't answer him. I walked back into Emma's room, lifted her off the bed, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.

Jason came charging after me and planted himself in the doorway. "Where do you think you're going?"

"The hospital." I shifted Emma against my shoulder and tried to move around him.

He blocked me, body pressed into the frame. "We have no money. Going won't do a damn thing. Get back inside."

"Move."

"No." He reached for Emma. "Put her down. You're not going anywhere—"

I stepped back. Went to the kitchen drawer and took out the knife.

Jason blinked. Then he laughed—an ugly, contemptuous laugh.

"What, you're gonna cut me?" He spread his arms wide and took a step forward. "Go ahead then. You've got the nerve—so put that knife in me."

I looked at him.

Then I looked down at his left hand, fingers splayed open.

One cut.

Three fingers.

"AH!" Jason's screaming brought the neighbors out into the hallway. Someone started pounding on the door. Someone was shouting something outside. I wasn't listening.

I set the knife back on the table. Walked to Emma's room and picked her up again. She was so light it made my chest ache.

"You—you—" Jason had collapsed against the wall, his face the color of chalk, cradling his hand against his chest. "You're insane, you're actually insane—"

"There's a drugstore on the corner," I said, stepping over his legs on my way to the door without looking back. "Painkillers are cheap."

The lights in the hospital corridor were harsh and white, bright enough to make my eyes hurt.

Emma was slumped against my shoulder, her breathing shallow, her forehead still radiating heat through my whole arm. I stood at the front desk and emptied every pocket I had—crumpled bills, a few coins, everything spread out on the counter. Less than two hundred dollars.

I felt hollowed out, gutted.

I grabbed the nurse's arm. "Please," I said. "Please save her. I already lost one child. If I lose Emma too, I won't survive it."

"Congenital heart disease," I said, when I could get the words out. "High fever. She needs to be seen now."

The nurse glanced at the money on the counter. Then looked at me. "Ma'am, I understand, but the deposit policy requires—"

"She's five years old."

The nurse's expression didn't change. Her eyes slid to the side—that particular slide that meant she was done engaging.

"You can contact a family member, or apply for—"

I stopped listening.

I looked down at Emma. Her eyes were closed. Her lashes were long against her cheeks. Her lips were going pale. Something had lodged itself so deep in my chest I couldn't breathe around it.

Then I heard heels in the corridor.

Each step was measured and deliberate—steady, unhurried, cutting clean through the sound of soft-soled shoes and rolling cart wheels. In a place like this, those footsteps were unmistakable.

A hand reached past me and set a card on the counter.

"Charge it to this account."

I turned around.

Linda.

My aunt. Forty-five, never married, wearing a perfectly tailored Hermès suit, four-inch Christian Louboutins, carrying the latest Chanel bag. She wore money the way other women wore perfume. She was a senior executive at the largest tech company in the city, earning well into six figures. She was the most unconventional woman in our entire family.

"Aunt Linda." My voice came out rough.

She looked down at Emma. Paused for one second. Then tipped her chin at the nurse.

"Take care of it."

The nurse ran the card. "Of course, ma'am. I'll take you to see the doctor."

I followed the nurse inside, Emma in my arms. At the corner, I glanced back. Linda was already looking at her phone, standing exactly where she'd been, like she'd simply stopped to deal with something trivial on her way somewhere else.

When Emma was settled, I came back out. Linda was sitting in one of the corridor chairs, legs crossed, posture perfect. She looked up when she heard me coming.

"Sit."

I sat.

"Thank you. The money—I'll pay you back—"

"Don't." She cut me off, her tone as flat and final as a door closing.

She turned her phone face-down and set it on her knee. Looked at me.

"These past few years have been brutal to you. Your husband is garbage. Your daughter has been sick since she was born. You've been running on empty for so long you've forgotten what it feels like to have anything left. From the outside, your life looks finished. But you're thirty-one years old, Amanda. You're not done. You still have a way out of this."

She paused.

"I have a job for you. You're the right fit. Annual salary, ten million dollars."

I thought I'd misheard her.

"Take it, and Emma gets the best doctors, the best schools. Everything you haven't let yourself think about—none of it will be out of reach anymore."

She stopped talking.

The corridor was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, people were murmuring. The sound of a cart faded away.

Linda sat there and looked at me. Waiting.

"Amanda. Do you want a different life for Emma?"

She let that sit for a moment.

"Put it this way—are you willing to fight for it? For yourself, and for her?"