Hey, my name is Lucas Mitchell. I’m 27 years old, and I work as a mechanic at a small garage just off the eastbound highway in Portland, Oregon. My life is pretty simple. No grand adventures, no crazy nights. I wake up at 6:00 every morning, pull on my oil-stained coveralls, and head to the shop where I spend my days buried in engines, oil filters, and rusted bolts.
The smell of motor oil sticks to my skin like a second layer. By the time I clock out, I’m usually too drained to do much more than grab a burger from a drive-thru, collapse onto the couch in my one-bedroom apartment, and turn on the TV for background noise. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. After my parents died in a car accident a few years ago, I learned to keep my life uncomplicated.
No close friends to rely on, no family dinners, just me, the rain-soaked streets of Portland, and the glow of city lights outside my window. That night was no different. At least, that’s how it started. It was a typical March rain in Portland. Not a violent storm, just a steady drizzle that soaked everything and made the world feel heavier.
I had just switched off the bedroom lamp and sunk into my lumpy mattress when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Two in the morning. I glanced at the screen. Unknown number. My first reaction was to ignore it. Who calls at that hour unless it’s a mistake or bad news? But it rang again, then a third time.
The vibration was persistent, almost desperate. I sighed and answered. “Hello?” The voice on the other end was a woman’s, trembling and thick with emotion. “James, is that you?” She sounded like she was barely holding herself together, her breaths short and uneven. “Please come to Memorial Hospital, room 302. I’m scared.
I don’t want to be alone.” I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes as the last of my sleep faded. “Sorry. I think you’ve dialed the wrong number.” There was a pause long enough that I thought she’d hung up. Then I heard it. A quiet, muffled sob. Not dramatic, not loud, just the raw sound of someone breaking in silence. “I—I’m sorry.
I know it’s wrong, but I’m terrified.” Something in her voice stopped me cold. It wasn’t exaggerated or manipulative. It was real fear, the kind that comes from facing something awful by yourself. I had felt that once, the night after my parents’ funeral, staring at the ceiling of an empty house. I couldn’t bring myself to hang up.
“I’m not James,” I said softly, keeping my tone steady. “But I can come. Just stay there, okay?” She hesitated, still breathing unevenly. “You—you’d really come?” After that, I didn’t hesitate. I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and stepped into the rain. Drops hammered my windshield as I drove through empty streets, city lights smearing into blurry lines.
What was I doing, racing across town at two in the morning for a stranger? It made no sense. But her voice echoed in my head, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I didn’t go, she’d be alone in that hospital room, drowning in whatever fear she was facing. Memorial Hospital rose ahead, its emergency lights cutting through the mist.
I parked in the visitor lot and hurried inside, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floors. The night nurse at the desk gave me a doubtful look when I asked for room 302, but after checking her clipboard, she waved me through. When I pushed the door open, the sharp smell of antiseptic hit me instantly. She was there, lying in the hospital bed beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
A woman in her mid-thirties, copper-red hair spread across the white pillow, her skin pale and almost translucent. Tubes ran from her arm to a beeping machine, and her wide, red-rimmed eyes locked onto mine with shock and confusion. “You’re not James.” I stepped closer, keeping my voice calm. “No. I’m Lucas.
You called the wrong number, but I couldn’t just ignore it after hearing you cry.” She stared at me for a long moment, like she was trying to understand this unexpected kindness from a stranger. Then she gave a weak, tired laugh, bitter and drained. “I’m Elena Prescott.
Looks like the universe sent me a good Samaritan instead of the man I was waiting for.” That night, I pulled a chair up beside her bed. Elena slowly opened up, her words spilling out between long pauses. She talked about the surgery scheduled at dawn, a risky procedure for what she vaguely called a complication. She hated hospitals, hated the cold walls and the constant beeping that reminded her how fragile life was.
No family close by, no one to call except this James, who clearly hadn’t shown. I didn’t push for details. I just listened, nodding now and then, offering quiet reassurance. “You’re stronger than you think,” I said when her voice cracked. “No one should go through this alone.” As the hours passed, the rain outside softened to a gentle patter.
Elena’s eyes grew heavy, but she resisted sleep, glancing at me like I might disappear. “Thank you,” she whispered at last, “for staying.” By morning, the nurses prepared her for surgery. She squeezed my hand before they wheeled her away, her grip unexpectedly strong. “If I make it, can I have your number?” I wrote it on a napkin and handed it to her. “You will make it.”
She did. When I checked back later that morning after grabbing coffee in the lobby, the doctor said she was stable. Elena, groggy but smiling faintly, thanked me again and saved my number in her phone. I left the hospital. As the sun finally broke through the clouds and the rain eased, I figured that was it. A strange one-time act of kindness in a city full of strangers.
But as I drove back to my apartment, a warm feeling settled in my chest, like I’d finally done something right. I had no idea it was only the beginning. Three days later, I was closing up at the garage, wiping grease from my hands with a rag worn thin, when a sleek black Cadillac rolled up in front of the bay doors.
It looked completely out of place among the scattered tools and oil drums, like a gem in a scrapyard. The driver, a man in a sharp suit, stepped out and walked toward me with purpose. “Lucas Mitchell?” he asked, his voice smooth and professional. “Yeah, that’s me,” I said, dropping the rag. He handed me a thick envelope. “Miss Elena Prescott requests your presence at dinner tomorrow evening at Prescott Manor.
The address and details are inside. She said it’s important.” I stared at the envelope, confused and slightly amused. “Is this a joke? I don’t know any Elena Prescott who lives in a manor.” The man didn’t smile. “She’s the woman from the hospital. The one you visited a few nights ago. She was very insistent.” My smile disappeared.
I nodded, and he pulled away without another word. Back at my apartment, I ripped open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note on fine stationery. Lucas, please come. I owe you more than I can ever say. Elena. The address led to a hilltop estate overlooking the city. Curiosity gnawed at me all night.
Who was this woman who had called me in the middle of the night? Why invite a mechanic to dinner? I tossed and turned, replaying her pale face and shaking voice. By morning, I decided I’d go, if only to make sure she was alright. The next evening, I drove up the winding road to Prescott Manor in my beat-up truck, feeling completely out of place. The property was enormous.
Stone walls, manicured gardens, and floor-to-ceiling windows glowing warmly against the dusk. A butler—yes, an actual butler—opened the door and guided me into a large living room with leather couches and a softly crackling fireplace. Elena was waiting there, looking nothing like the version I’d seen in the hospital.
She wore a simple black dress that fit her perfectly, her copper-red hair falling in loose waves. She looked healthier, though still delicate, with a quiet strength in the way she stood. “Lucas,” she said, rising to greet me with a sincere smile. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.” “Honestly, neither was I,” I admitted, shaking her hand.
It was warm and steady. But after that night, I felt like I should check on you. We sat down for dinner in a dining room big enough to host a banquet. The food was incredible. Herb-roasted chicken, fresh vegetables, wine that probably cost more than my rent. But Elena barely touched her plate. She seemed far more interested in talking.
“I looked you up,” she said after a while, setting her fork aside. “You’re a mechanic. No family listed. You live alone.” I raised an eyebrow. “And you?” I did some digging too. Elena Prescott, heir to Prescott Media, a billion-dollar empire. Why call a wrong number at two in the morning? She leaned back, meeting my gaze without flinching. “Because I’m sick, Lucas. Cancer.”
“It’s treatable, but the treatments leave me weak. And the board at my company—they’re sharks. They’re waiting for me to show weakness so they can push me out and take control of what my family built.” I listened as she unloaded everything. The endless meetings, the paparazzi tracking her every move, the loneliness of being at the top.
No real friends, no one she could trust. James, the ex she’d tried calling that night, had disappeared months ago when the diagnosis became public. “I need someone beside me,” she said finally, her voice calm but urgent. “To show the world and the board that I’m not alone, that I’m strong enough to lead. Would you pretend to be my boyfriend? Just for a while.”
Appear at events. Hold my hand in public. I’ll pay you well. The words lingered in the air. I set my glass down, my head spinning. Pretend? Elena, I’m a mechanic. I fix engines, not lives. Why me? You could hire an actor, someone who fits your world. “Because you’re real,” she said quietly. “You showed up at two in the morning.”
“For a stranger. No expectations. No hidden motive. In my world, everyone wants something. But you—you just cared.” I stared at the table, tracing the wood grain with my finger. The distance between us felt massive. Her with her estates and empires, me with my tools and empty apartment. But there was something in her eyes, an honesty that echoed the loneliness I’d carried for years.
“One condition,” I said finally. “No one gets hurt. And if this starts to feel real, we stop pretending and deal with it honestly.” She nodded, relief flooding her face. “Deal.” Driving home that night, city lights streaking past, I wondered what I’d just agreed to. A fake relationship with a billionaire heiress. It sounded insane.
But deep down, the part of me that had rushed to her hospital bed knew this wasn’t about money or pretending. It was about two people finding each other in the dark. And maybe that was enough to move forward. The first few weeks after agreeing to Elena’s plan felt like stepping into another world.
One minute I was bent over the hood of a rusted Ford in my garage. The next I was slipping into a rented tuxedo for a black-tie gala downtown. Elena’s team handled everything. Wardrobe fittings, etiquette crash courses, even a quick haircut to make me look less like a grease monkey and more like someone who belonged. We rehearsed our backstory.
We’d met at a charity event—close enough to the truth, she said—bonded over classic cars, a nod to my job, and things had grown from there. Every detail was planned, from casual hand-holding to the lingering looks for cameras. Our first appearance was at a Prescott Media fundraiser. Elena moved through the room in an emerald gown that shimmered like water, her arm looped through mine.
Cameras flashed as reporters whispered. “Who’s the mystery man?” someone called. Elena smiled smoothly. “This is Lucas Mitchell, my partner.” “He’s been my rock.” I nodded, playing along, but my stomach twisted. The crowd was filled with tailored suits and diamonds.
People who spoke in millions and drank champagne like it was water. I felt like a fraud. My calloused hands hidden whenever I could. But as the night went on, something changed. Between speeches and small talk, Elena leaned close during a quiet moment on the balcony. “You’re doing great,” she whispered, her breath warm near my ear.
For a second, it didn’t feel like acting. Her hand stayed on my arm just a moment too long, and I glimpsed the vulnerable woman from the hospital. The real Elena, not the CEO mask. Back at the manor after events like that, the act fell away. We kicked off our shoes in her massive kitchen, ordered takeout from a tiny Chinese place—her guilty pleasure—and just talked. No scripts. No cameras.
I told her about growing up in a cramped apartment on Portland’s east side, how my dad taught me to fix engines before he died, how my mom’s quiet strength held us together until cancer took her too. “Life isn’t fair,” I said one night, staring out at the city from her terrace.
“But you keep turning the wrench anyway.” Elena opened up in return. Her childhood in the Prescott empire sounded glamorous on paper. Private schools, European trips. But it was wrapped in loneliness. “My parents were always building the company,” she said, swirling her wine. “I was the heir, not the daughter.
No sleepovers. No boyfriends who weren’t approved. And now with the cancer, they see me as a risk.” Her voice cracked, and she turned away, but I reached out, gently turning her back. “You’re not a risk,” I said. “You’re fighting like hell.” It was moments like that when the lines between pretending and real began to blur.
After her chemotherapy sessions, she’d return completely drained, her skin pale, her strength gone. I’d drive her back, guide her to the couch, and stay with her through the waves of nausea. No cameras, no executives, just me making ginger tea or reading from one of her old mystery novels until she drifted off. One afternoon, after an especially brutal treatment, she collapsed against me at the clinic entrance, too weak to walk on her own.
I lifted her without hesitation, carrying her to the car as nurses and patients stared. “Put me down,” she protested faintly, but her arms tightened around my neck. Once inside the car, she broke down, deep shaking sobs tearing through her. “They all look at me like I’m damaged,” she cried. “Like I’ll never be whole again.” You’re not broken, I told her, pulling over onto a quiet side street.
I held her while tears soaked into my shirt. You’re the strongest person I know. And no board, no illness, no diagnosis gets to define you. She looked up at me then, eyes red but blazing. Why do you stay? This isn’t what you signed up for. I brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. Because it’s not an act anymore. Not for me.
The words hung between us. Elena didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a hesitant kiss. Gentle, unsure, but real. It wasn’t fireworks or passion. It was two people finding comfort in the middle of chaos. That night, back at the manor, we didn’t sleep. We lay on her oversized bed, still dressed, her head resting on my chest as her fingers traced slow patterns on my arm.
She spoke about her fear of dying too young, of losing the company her family built, of never feeling truly seen. I shared my own fears. The emptiness after my parents died, the terror of always being alone. “You changed that,” I whispered. “Being here isn’t about the agreement anymore.” As weeks became a month, what we had shifted into something deeper.
We escaped the spotlight for real dates, drives along the Columbia River Gorge, short hikes followed by picnics on overlooks, laughing as I failed to skip stones across the water. She showed me her hidden library inside the manor, filled with first editions, and I’d read aloud while she rested. In public, we were flawless, hands intertwined at board meetings, my steady presence beside her during interviews.
But in private, it was the quiet closeness that bound us. The way she’d text me at odd hours just to say she was thinking of me. The way I’d show up unannounced with her favorite coffee after long days. One evening after a brutal investor call, Elena broke down again. “If this all collapses, if I don’t survive, what happens then?” Her voice was small and exposed. I pulled her close.
You will survive. And even if everything falls apart, I’ll still be here. Not because of a contract, but because I choose you. She searched my face, then nodded slowly. “Lucas, if this is real for you, then it’s real for me too.” From that moment on, the pretense was gone. What began as a fake relationship had become my anchor, and her light.
I stopped questioning the difference between our worlds. I only knew I couldn’t imagine mine without her anymore. But nothing stays hidden forever, especially in Elena’s world where every shadow is watched. It began quietly, a whisper here, a glance there. At a board meeting I attended to support her, Richard Harrington, the silver-haired vice chairman with a predator’s smile, leaned in during a break.
“Quite the whirlwind romance,” he said, his voice coated in false charm. “From hospital bedside to red carpets. Very inspiring.” Elena brushed it aside, but I noticed the tightness in her jaw. Harrington had been circling her position ever since her diagnosis leaked, seeing her illness as an opening. A week later, the storm arrived. I was at the garage.
Yes, I still worked there some days, needing the normalcy of wrenches and oil changes, when my phone exploded with messages from Elena. Don’t check the news. Come here now. But it was already too late. On my break, I opened a browser and the headlines screamed, “Elena Prescott’s fake fiancé: hired help or heartfelt hoax?”
Photos of us were everywhere. Blurry shots of me taking an envelope from her driver that first night. Cropped emails about compensation. A timeline designed to make it look like I’d been paid from the start. The article quoted unnamed board sources. She’s clinging to power. This relationship is a publicity stunt gone wrong.
My hands trembled as I scrolled. Paparazzi had dug into everything. My job at the garage. My parents’ obituaries. Even my apartment address. “From rags to riches,” one tabloid mocked. “Or just a mechanic cashing in on a dying heiress.” I felt exposed and violated. This wasn’t only about Elena anymore. They had turned me into a joke.
I rushed to the manor, weaving through reporters at the gates who hurled questions like weapons. “Lucas, how much is she paying you?” “Is it all fake?” Inside, Elena paced the living room, her face pale. “They hired investigators,” she said tightly. “Harrington leaked it to crash the stock and force a vote to remove me.”
Prescott Media shares had dropped fifteen percent in hours. The board called an emergency meeting for the next day. If they voted her out, everything her family built would fall into Harrington’s hands. I collapsed onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. This is my fault. If I hadn’t agreed—
“No,” she interrupted, kneeling in front of me. “This is their fault. Greed.” Then her voice softened. “But Lucas, if you want out now, I understand. This isn’t what you signed up for.”
Her words hit hard. Out. After the nights I’d held her through chemo chills, after the confessions that had turned a lie into something real, I looked at her. Really looked. A woman who’d fought cancer, built an empire, and now faced betrayal from her own circle. Leaving would be the easy way back to my simple life. But easy was never us.
“I’m not leaving,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “We face this together.” “But how?” she asked. “Deny it? Sue them?” She shook her head against my chest. “No. We tell the truth. Everything. The call. The hospital. How it started as a deal and became real. If we hide, they win. If we own it, maybe people see the strength in vulnerability.” It was a risk.
The press conference was scheduled for the next morning, Elena’s idea. A bold move to take control before the board meeting. We barely slept that night. She drafted statements. I paced, rehearsing my words. Reporters camped outside like vultures. By dawn, my nerves were shot.
But Elena, she was unbreakable. “You’ve been my anchor,” she said, squeezing my hand as we stepped into the glare of attention. The conference room at Prescott headquarters hummed with cameras and low murmurs. Elena stood at the podium in a tailored suit, with me beside her. Flashbulbs burst as she began. Yes, Lucas and I started with an agreement.
I was frightened, isolated, battling cancer while facing a board that wanted me out. I asked him to stand with me in public. But what began as necessity turned into something deeper. Her voice never wavered. She explained the wrong number call, my rush to the hospital, the real connection that followed. He is not an actor I hired.
He is the man who showed up when no one else did. Then it was my turn. I wrapped my hands around the podium, my heart racing. I’m just a mechanic from East Portland. I didn’t come here for money or recognition. I came because she needed someone, and somehow that person was me. What we have now is real. And no leak or headline will change that. The room erupted, questions firing rapidly. Motives. Evidence.
But Elena stood firm. Judge us by what we do, not by rumors. Prescott Media succeeds because of trust. And I trust Lucas with my life. We left amid the chaos, but the momentum shifted. Social media lit up with support. #RealLoveStory began trending. Stories of wrong-number miracles poured in. The stock stabilized and even climbed as investors praised her honesty.
At the board meeting, Harrington’s attempted takeover collapsed completely. Members voted to support Elena, citing her steady leadership. Later, as we escaped to her terrace overlooking the city, Elena fell into my arms. Not from weakness, but relief. We did it, she whispered. Because of you. No, I said, kissing her forehead.
Because of us. The scandal didn’t break us. It made us stronger. Elena’s treatments continued, but with the pressure gone, she fought with renewed strength. And me? I stepped fully into the light, ready to stand beside her or help create something new together. After the dust from the scandal settled, life didn’t return to some perfect fairy tale.
Instead, it softened into something calmer, more real. Elena’s treatments ended successfully. A few months later, doctors declared her in remission. Clean scans. Her energy returning in waves. She threw herself back into leading Prescott Media with fresh determination. Her openness during the crisis earned deep loyalty from employees and shareholders alike.
Harrington resigned quietly, his schemes exposed, and the company flourished under her balanced leadership. But she no longer let it consume her. “I’ve learned balance,” she told me one afternoon as we walked through the manor gardens. “And that’s because of you.” I didn’t return to the garage full-time. The rhythm of oil changes and engine repairs felt like a life I’d already lived.
Instead, Elena asked me to help expand the company’s charitable foundation, a project she’d long wanted to grow. I took it on, organizing drives for cancer research and outreach in Portland’s underserved neighborhoods. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt right, like I was finally building something meaningful instead of just fixing what was broken.
For the first time, my purpose stretched beyond survival. We let go of the pretense completely. No more staged photos or rehearsed appearances. Our days settled into a simple rhythm. Mornings with coffee on the terrace. Her reviewing reports while I sketched ideas for the foundation.
Evenings cooking together in her kitchen, experimenting with recipes that often ended in laughter over burned edges. Elena’s hair grew back short and curly after chemo. A soft auburn halo she wore proudly. “It’s my badge,” she said, running her fingers through it. A reminder that I survived. And she smiled more.
Real, open smiles that lit up her face and filled my chest with a warmth I’d never known. We traveled when we could, escaping the city’s noise for the raw beauty of the Oregon coast. We drove my old truck along Highway 101, windows down, salt air rushing in as we stopped at hidden beaches or hiked misty redwood trails.
One weekend, we camped near Cannon Beach in a quiet, secluded spot, building a fire beneath the stars. No luxury tents, no catered meals, just a blanket, marshmallows, and the sound of waves crashing nearby. “This is what I missed,” she admitted, leaning against me as the flames flickered. Feeling alive, not just existing. That night, lying in the tent listening to the ocean, I asked the question that had been waiting since the beginning.
“What if you hadn’t dialed the wrong number that night? Would our lives have ever crossed?” Elena turned toward me, her eyes catching the soft glow of the lantern. “Maybe not,” she said, “but I believe the universe sends us exactly who we need, precisely when we need them. You came into my life at my lowest point, Lucas, and helped lift me back up.” We chose a smaller place on the edge of Portland, a cozy Craftsman bungalow with a wraparound porch and a backyard large enough for a garden.
The manor remained as her occasional business retreat, but this place was ours. Simple. Warm. Filled with shelves of books and plants we cared for together. Mornings began with her steeping tea while I cooked eggs. Evenings ended with us wrapped together beneath the covers, her head resting on my chest as we whispered about the future. No sweeping gestures or diamond rings, just the steady certainty of choosing each other every single day.
It wasn’t a fairy-tale romance. There were still difficult days, follow-up scans that filled her with anxiety, board decisions that kept her awake late into the night. But we faced them together, her strength supporting mine, my calm grounding hers. And in those moments, I understood that happiness wasn’t about perfection. It was about being present, about taking a chance on a stranger in the rain, and about refusing to let go when the world tried to tear you apart.
Looking back, that wrong-number call at two in the morning wasn’t an accident. It was the spark that set everything in motion. Elena showed me that vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the path to something deeper. And together, we’ve created a life that’s honest, resilient, and truly ours.
