Chapter 1 - THE PRICE OF A DYING WOMAN’S WISHThe silence in the tenth-floor office wasn’t just quiet; it was heavy, suffocating, and charged with the kind of tension that made the air feel thin.
Penelope Adams stood by the leather armchair, her chest heaving as the gravity of Albert Crawford’s words settled over her. A lie. He wanted her—a humble housekeeper who spent her days scrubbing bathtub rings and washing stained linens—to play the role of high-society wife to a dying matriarch.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Penelope whispered, shaking her head. She took a step back, her worn sneakers squeaking against the polished mahogany floor. “Mr. Crawford—Albert—do you hear yourself? This isn’t a game of pretend in the hotel courtyard. This is a dying woman. If she finds out she’s being lied to, it could literally kill her!”
Albert didn't move. He remained seated behind his massive desk, his elbows resting on the wood, his face half-shadowed by the afternoon light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But for all his posture of absolute control, his hands were locked together so tightly his knuckles were stark white.
“I know what it sounds like,” Albert said, his voice dangerously low. “It sounds insane, manipulative, and deeply cruel. But you don’t know my mother. Eleanor Crawford isn’t just sick—she’s fading. Her heart is operating at thirty percent. The doctors told us last week that stress could finish her, but joy... joy has kept her alive longer than medicine ever could.”
Penelope crossed her arms, hugging her uniform jacket tight against her ribs. “And when she asks for a marriage certificate? When she wants to know how we met? What do I tell her? That the billionaire owner of the Empress Hotel swept his maid off her feet with a mop bucket?”
“We tell her the truth, modified,” Albert replied, standing up. He was taller than she realized, imposing, yet his shoulders carried a palpable weight of defeat. “We tell her we met quietly. That we kept it private because of the press. My mother hates the tabloids. She would understand wanting to keep a relationship sacred.”
“Sacred?” Penelope let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “There is nothing sacred about a fraud, Mr. Crawford. I live in a two-bedroom apartment on the South Side. My idea of fine dining is a frozen pizza on a Friday night. I don’t know how to hold a champagne flute without spilling it, I don’t own a single dress that costs more than forty dollars, and I certainly don’t know the first thing about high-society etiquette. Your family—your aunts, your cousins, the board members who look at me like I’m an insect—they’ll tear me to pieces in five minutes.”
Albert walked around the desk, stopping just a few feet away from her. Up close, his gray eyes were pools of absolute desperation.
“My family won't be a problem because I’ll handle them,” Albert said softly. “As for the rest... I can teach you. Or rather, you won't need to act. Just be yourself. My mother doesn’t care about high society. She grew up poor in Indiana before my father built this empire. She values kindness, hard work, and honesty above all else. Irony of ironies, Penelope—you possess every quality she has spent forty years wishing her son would bring home.”
Penelope stared at him, her breath hitching. The memory of her own mother flashed across her mind—the pale face, the frail fingers, the desperate wish before the end to know her daughter would never be alone in the world. She knew what it felt like to want peace for someone you loved.
“How long?” Penelope asked quietly, her voice trembling. “How long do I have to keep up this charade?”
Albert hesitated, a shadow crossing his face. “Just until she stabilizes. A few weeks. Maybe a month. Until the doctors say she’s out of immediate danger.”
“And if she asks for a wedding? A ceremony?”
“We’ll say we eloped at City Hall,” Albert answered instantly, proving he had already thought this through. “Quiet, small, no fuss. Just the two of us.”
Penelope closed her eyes. She was risking her job, her dignity, and her sanity. If the board found out, she would be fired instantly and blacklisted from every hotel in Chicago. If the guests found out, she’d be the laughingstock of the city.
Yet, looking at Albert Crawford—the untouchable hotel king reduced to a pleading son—she realized she was trapped by her own empathy.
“If I do this,” Penelope opened her eyes, locking her gaze onto his with fierce determination, “it’s on my terms. No fake rings from Tiffany’s that scream ‘prop.’ No humiliation. And when this is over, I want a written guarantee that my job here is secure, my salary is doubled for the duration of this madness, and your family never, ever contacts me again.”
Albert stared at her, stunned for a fraction of a second, before a slow, profoundly grateful smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Done,” Albert said, extending his hand. “Deal.”
May you like
Penelope looked down at his large, warm hand, swallowed hard, and placed her own palm inside his.
She had no idea that by shaking his hand, she had just stepped off a cliff into a world of wealth, betrayal, and dark secrets from which there was no turning back.
