Hey, my name’s 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. Life’s pretty straightforward for me. No big adventures, no wild nights out. I wake up at 6:00 every morning, throw on my grease stained coveralls, and head to the shop where I spend the day elbow deep in engines, oil filters, and rusty bolts.

The smell of motor oil clings to my skin like a second layer. And by the time I clock out, I’m usually too wiped to do much more than grab a burger from the drive-thru, flop onto my couch in my one-bedroom apartment, and flip on the TV for some background noise. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. After my parents died in a car accident a few years back, I learned to keep things simple.

No close friends to lean on, no family gatherings, just me, the rain slick streets of Portland, and the hum of the city lights outside my window. That night was no different. At least it started that way. It was a typical March downpour in Portland. Not a raging storm, but a relentless drizzle that soaked through everything and made the world feel heavier.

I just turned off the lamp in my bedroom, sinking into the lumpy mattress when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. 2 in the morning. I glanced at the screen. Unknown number. My first instinct was to ignore it. Who calls at this hour unless it’s a wrong number or some kind of trouble? But it rang again, then a third time.

The vibrations insistent, almost desperate. I sighed and picked it up. Hello? The voice on the other end was a woman’s, shaky and choked with emotion. James, is that you? She sounded like she was barely holding it together, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. 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 fog of sleep cleared. Sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong number. There was a pause long enough that I thought she’d hung up. Then I heard it. A soft, stifled sob. Not the dramatic kind you see in movies, but the real raw sound of someone breaking quietly. I’m I’m sorry.

I know it’s wrong, but I’m so scared. Something in her voice stopped me cold. It wasn’t manipulative or over the top. It was genuine fear, the kind that comes from facing something terrifying all by yourself. I’d felt that once the night after my parents’ funeral, staring at the ceiling in an empty house. I couldn’t just hang up.

I’m not James, I said gently, trying to keep my voice steady. But I can come. Just stay there, okay? She hesitated, her breathing still uneven. you you’d really come? I didn’t think twice after that. I pulled on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and stepped out into the rain. The drops pelted my windshield as I drove through the deserted streets, the city lights blurring into streaks.

What the hell was I doing racing across town at 2 a.m. for a stranger? It didn’t make sense. But her cry echoed in my head, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I didn’t show up, she’d be left in that hospital room, drowning in whatever nightmare she was facing alone. Memorial Hospital loomed ahead, its emergency lights cutting through the mist.

I parked in the visitor lot and jogged inside, my sneakers squeaking on the lenolium floors. The night nurse at the desk gave me a skeptical look when I asked for room 302, but she waved me through after checking her clipboard. Pushing open the door, the sharp scent of antiseptic hit me like a wall. There she was, lying in the hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights.

A woman in her mid-30s, maybe with copper red hair spilling over the white pillow, her skin pale and almost translucent. Four lines snaked from her arm to a beeping machine and her eyes wide and red rimmed, locked onto mine with a mix of shock and confusion. You’re not James. I stepped closer, keeping my voice low. No, I’m Lucas.

You called the wrong number, but I couldn’t just leave it like that after hearing you cry. She stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to process this random act of kindness from a total stranger. Then, unexpectedly, she let out a weak laugh, bitter and exhausted. I’m Elena Prescott.

Looks like the universe sent me a good Samaritan instead of the guy I was hoping for. That night, I pulled up a chair beside her bed. Elena opened up slowly, her words tumbling out between pauses. She talked about the surgery scheduled for dawn, a risky procedure for something she vaguely called a complication. She hated hospitals, hated the cold walls and the beeps that reminded her of how fragile life was.

No family nearby, no one to call except this James, who clearly hadn’t shown up. I didn’t push for details. I just listened, nodding occasionally. offering small words of encouragement. “You’re tougher than you think,” I said at one point when her voice cracked. “And no one should face this alone.” As the hours ticked by, the rain outside softened to a patter.

Elena’s eyes grewheavy, but she fought sleep, glancing at me like I might vanish. “Thank you,” she whispered finally, “for being here.” By morning, the nurses prepped her for surgery. She squeezed my hand before they wheeled her away, her grip surprisingly strong. “If I make it, can I have your number?” I scribbled it on a napkin and handed it over. “You will make it.” “She did.

” When I checked back later that morning, after a quick coffee in the lobby, the doctor confirmed she was stable. Elena, groggy but smiling faintly, thanked me again and slipped my number into her phone. I left the hospital. As the sun broke through the clouds, the rain finally easing, I figured that was the end of it. A weird one-off act of humanity in a city full of strangers.

But as I drove back to my apartment, a strange warmth lingered in my chest, like I’d done something right for once. Little did I know, it was just the beginning. 3 days later, I was wrapping up at the garage, wiping grease off my hands with a rag that had seen better days, when a sleek black Cadillac pulled up right in front of the bay doors.

It looked out of place amid the scattered tools and oil drums like a diamond in a junkyard. The driver, a guy in a crisp suit, stepped out and approached me with a purposeful stride. “Lucas Mitchell?” he asked, his voice polished and professional. “Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, tossing the rag aside. 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, feeling a mix of confusion and amusement. This some kind of 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 quite insistent. My amusement faded.

I nodded and he drove off without another word. Back at my apartment, I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note on elegant stationery. Lucas, please come. I owe you more than words can say. Elena. The address was for a hilltop estate overlooking the city. Curiosity nawed at me all night.

Who is this woman who’d called me in the dead of night? Why invite a mechanic to dinner? I tossed and turned, replaying her pale face and trembling voice. By morning, I decided to go, if only to make sure she was okay. The next evening, I drove up the winding road to Prescott Manor in my beatup truck, feeling like an intruder. The place was massive.

Stone walls, manicured gardens, and floor to ceiling windows that glowed with warm light against the twilight sky. A butler, yeah, an actual butler, opened the door and led me to a spacious living room with leather sofas and a fireplace crackling softly. Elellena was waiting there, looking far different from the hospital version of herself.

She wore a simple black dress that hugged her figure, her copper red hair styled in loose waves. She seemed healthier, though still fragile, with a subtle strength in her posture. “Lucas,” she said, standing to greet me with a genuine smile. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.” “I wasn’t either,” I admitted, shaking her hand.

It felt warm, steady. But after that night, I figured I should check in. We sat down to dinner in a dining room that could host a banquet. The meal was exquisite. Roast chicken with herbs, fresh vegetables, wine that probably cost more than my rent. But Elena didn’t eat much. She seemed more interested in talking.

I looked you up, she said after a while, setting down her fork. You’re a mechanic. No family listed. You live alone. I raised an eyebrow. And you? I did a little searching, too. Elena Prescott, heir to Prescott Media, billiondollar empire. Why call a wrong number in the middle of the night? She leaned back, her eyes meeting mine without flinching because I’m sick, Lucas. Cancer.

It’s treatable, but the treatments, they leave me weak. And the board at my company, they’re sharks. They’re waiting for me to slip to show vulnerability so they can push me out and take control of what my family built. I listened as she poured it out. The endless meetings, the paparazziounding her every move, the isolation of being at the top.

No real friends, no one she could trust. James, the ex she’d been trying to call, had ghosted her months ago when her diagnosis came out. “I need someone by my side,” she said finally, her voice steady, but laced with urgency. “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.

Appeared events, hold my hand in public. I’ll compensate you generously. The words hung in the air like smoke. I set my glass down, my mind reeling. Pretend, Elena, I’m a mechanic. I fix cars, not lives. Why me? You could hire an actor, someone who fits into your world. Because you’re real, she replied softly. You showed up at 2 a.m.

for a stranger. No expectations, no agenda. Inmy world, everyone wants something. But you, you just cared. I stared at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with my finger. The gap between us was huge. Her with her mansions and media empires, me with my toolbox and empty apartment. But there was something in her eyes, a raw honesty that mirrored the loneliness I’d felt for years.

One condition, I said at last, no one gets hurt. And if this starts feeling real, we stopped pretending and figured out honestly. She nodded, relief washing over her face. Deal. As I drove home that night, the city lights blurring past, I wondered what I just signed up for. A fake relationship with a billionaire ays. It sounded insane.

But deep down, a part of me, the part that had rushed to her bedside, knew this was about more than money or pretense. It was about two people who’d found each other in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to light the way forward. Those first few weeks after agreeing to Elena’s proposal felt like stepping into an alternate reality.

One minute I was under the hood of a rusted Ford in my garage. The next I was slipping into a rented tuxedo for a black tie gala at some upscale venue downtown. Elena had a team handle the details. wardrobe fittings, etiquette crash courses, even a quick haircut to make me look less like a grease monkey and more like someone who belonged in her world. We rehearsed our story.

We’d met at a charity event, close enough to the truth, she said, bonded over shared interests in classic cars, a nod to my job, and things had blossomed from there. It was all scripted down to the casual handholding and the lingering glances for the cameras. Our debut was at a Prescott media fundraiser. Elna glided through the room in an emerald gown that caught the light like water, her arm linked with mine.

Flash bulbs popped as reporters murmured questions. “Who’s the mystery man?” one called out. Elena smiled effortlessly. “This is Lucas Mitchell, my partner.” “He’s been my rock.” I nodded, playing the part, but inside my stomach twisted. The crowd was a sea of tailored suits and diamond necklaces.

People who talked in millions and sipped champagne like water. I felt like an impostor. My calloused hands hidden in my pockets when no one was looking. But as the night wore on, something shifted. Between the toasts and small talk, Elellena leaned in close during a quiet moment on the balcony. “You’re doing great,” she whispered, her breath warm against my ear.

For a second, it didn’t feel like acting. Her hand lingered on my arm a beat too long and I caught a glimpse of the vulnerability she’d shown in the hospital. The real Elena, not the CEO facade. Back at the manor after events like that, the pretense dropped. We’d kick off our shoes in her massive kitchen, order takeout from some hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, her guilty pleasure, she confessed, and just talk. No scripts, no audience.

I told her about growing up in a cramped apartment on the east side of Portland, how my dad taught me to fix engines before he passed, and how my mom’s quiet strength kept us going until cancer took her, too. I learned early that life’s not fair, I said one night, staring at the city lights 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 vacations, but it was laced with loneliness. “My parents were always building the company,” she said, swirling a glass of wine. “I was the heir, not the daughter.

No sleepovers, no boyfriends who weren’t vetted. And now with the cancer, they see me as a liability.” Her voice cracked then, and she turned away, but I reached out, gently turning her face back. You’re not a liability. You’re fighting like hell. It was moments like that when the lines blurred.

After her chemo sessions, she’d come back drained, her skin ashen, and her energy sapped. I’d drive her home, help her to the couch, and sit with her through the nausea. No cameras, no board members, just me brewing ginger tea or reading aloud from one of her old mystery novels until she dozed off. One afternoon, after a particularly rough treatment, she collapsed into my arms at the clinic door, too weak to walk unaded.

I scooped her up without thinking, carrying her to the car amid stairs from nurses and patients. “Put me down,” she protested weakly, but her arms wrapped around my neck. “In the car,” she cried, deep, shuddering sobs. “They all look at me like I’m broken, like I’ll never be whole again.” You’re not broken, I said, pulling over on a quiet side street.

I held her as the tears soaked my shirt. You’re the strongest person I know. And no one, no board, no disease gets to define you. She looked up at me then, her eyes red but fierce. Why do you stay? This isn’t what you signed up for. I brushed a strand of hair from her face. Because it’s not pretending anymore. Not for me.

The admission hung between us. Elenadidn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a tentative kiss. Soft, uncertain, but real. It wasn’t passionate fireworks. It was two people finding solace in the storm. That night, back at the manor, we didn’t sleep. We lay on her oversized bed, fully clothed, her head on my chest as she traced patterns on my arm.

She talked about her fears of dying young, of losing the company her family built, of never feeling truly seen. I shared mine. The emptiness after my parents’ deaths, the fear of always being alone. “You’ve changed that,” I whispered. “Being here, it’s not about the deal anymore.” As the weeks turned into a month, our arrangement evolved into something deeper.

We’d sneak away from the spotlight for real dates, drives along the Columbia River Gorge, where we’d hike short trails and picnic on overlooks, heard laughing as I tried to skip stones across the water. She showed me her hidden library in the manor, filled with first edition books, and I’d read to her while she rested. In public, we were the perfect couple, her hand and mine at board meetings, my supportive nods during interviews.

But privately, it was the quiet intimacy that bound us. the way she’d text me at odd hours just to say she was thinking of me or how I’d show up unannounced with her favorite coffee after a long day. One evening after a grueling investor call, Elellena broke down again. If this all falls apart, if I don’t make it, what then? Her voice was small, vulnerable. I pulled her close.

You will make it. And even if the world crumbles, I’ll be here. Not because of some agreement, but because I choose you. She searched my eyes, then nodded slowly. Lucas, if this is real for you, it’s real for me, too. From that moment, the pretense shattered. What started as a fake relationship had become my anchor, her light.

I no longer questioned the gap between our worlds. I just knew I couldn’t imagine mine without her in it. But nothing stays hidden forever, especially in Elena’s world where every shadow has eyes watching. It started small, a whisper here, a raised eyebrow there. At a board meeting I attended as her support. Richard Harrington, the silver-haired vice chairman with a shark smile, leaned in during a break.

Quite the whirlwind romance, he said, his tone dripping with false warmth. From hospital bedside to red carpets, inspiring. Elena brushed it off, but I saw the tension in her jaw. Harrington had been gunning for her position since her diagnosis leaked, seeing her illness as a weakness to exploit. A week later, the storm hit. I was at the garage.

Yes, I still went to work some days needing the normaly of wrenches and oil changes when my phone blew up with notifications, texts from Elena. Don’t check the news. Come here now. But it was too late. I opened a browser on my break and the headlines screamed, “Elena Prescott’s fake fiance, hired help, or heartfelt hoax.

” Photos of us were splashed everywhere. Grainy shots of me accepting an envelope from her driver that first night. Snippets of emails about compensation, even a doctor timeline making it look like I’d been paid off from the start. The article quoted anonymous sources from the board. She’s desperate to cling to power. This relationship is a PR stunt gone wrong.

My hands shook as I scrolled. Paparazzi had dug into my life. My garage job, my parents’ obituaries, even my apartment address. From rags to riches, one tabloid sneered. Or just a mechanic cashing in on a dying ays. I felt exposed, violated. This wasn’t just about Elena. They’d turned me into a punchline. I raced to the manor, dodging a swarm of reporters at the gates who shouted questions like arrows.

Lucas, how much is she paying you? Is it all an act? Elellanena was inside pacing the living room, her face ashen. They hired investigators, she said, her voice tight. Harington, he leaked it to tank the stock and force a vote to oust me. Prescott media shares had plummeted 15% in hours. The board called an emergency meeting for the next day.

If they voted her out, everything her family built would crumble under Harrington’s control. I sank onto the couch, head in my hands. This is my fault. If I hadn’t agreed. No. She cut in, kneeling in front of me. This is their fault. Greed. But Lucas, if you want out now, I understand. This isn’t what you signed up for.

Her words hit like a punch. out. After the nights I’d held her through chemo chills, after the quiet confessions that had turned our charade into something unbreakable, I looked at her. Really looked. The woman who’d fought cancer, who’d built an empire from ashes, now facing betrayal from her own circle. Leaving would be the easy path back to my simple life. But easy wasn’t us.

I’m not going anywhere, I said, pulling her into my arms. We face this together. But how? Deny it? sue them. She shook her head against my chest. No, we tell the truth. All of it. The call, the hospital, how it started as a deal, but became real.If we hide, they win. If we own it, maybe the world sees the strength and vulnerability. It was a gamble.

The press conference was set for the next morning. Elena’s idea, a bold move to control the narrative before the board meeting. We spent the night preparing, not sleeping much. She drafted statements. I paced, rehearsing what I’d say. Reporters camped outside, their vans like vultures. By dawn, my nerves were frayed.

But Elellena, she was steel. “You’ve been my anchor,” she said, squeezing my hand as we stepped into the spotlight. The conference room at Prescott headquarters buzzed with cameras and murmurss. Elena stood at the podium in a sharp suit, me beside her. Flashbulbs exploded as she began. Yes, Lucas and I started with an arrangement.

I was scared, alone, facing cancer in a board that wanted me gone. I asked him to stand by me publicly. But what began as convenience became something profound. Her voice steady. She detailed the wrong number call, my rush to the hospital, the genuine bond that grew. He’s not a hired actor.

He’s the man who showed up when no one else did. Then it was my turn. I gripped the podium, heart pounding. I’m just a mechanic from East Portland. I didn’t come for money or fame. I came because she needed someone and somehow that someone was me. What we have now, it’s real. And no leak, no headline changes that. The room erupted, questions flying like bullets. Proof motives.

But Elena held firm. Judge us by our actions, not rumors. Prescott media thrives because of trust. And I trust Lucas with my life. We left amid chaos, but the tide shifted. Social media buzzed with support. #real love story trended. Stories of wrong number miracles flooded in. Stock stabilized, even ticked up as investors praised her transparency.

The board meeting, Harrington’s push failed spectacularly. Members voted to back Elena, citing her unwavering leadership. In the aftermath, as we escaped to her terrace overlooking the city, Elena collapsed 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 destroy us. It forged us stronger. Elna’s treatments continued, but with the weight lifted, she fought harder. And me? I’d stepped out of the shadows, ready to stand in her light or create our own. After the dust settled from the scandal, life didn’t snap back to some fairy tale perfection.

It eased into something quieter, more grounded. Elellanena’s treatments wrapped up successfully. A few months later, the doctors declared her in remission. Her scans clear, her energy returning in waves. She dove back into leading Prescott Media with a renewed fire. Her transparency during the crisis earning her unwavering loyalty from shareholders and employees alike.

Harrington resigned quietly, his schemes exposed, and the company thrived under her steadier hand. But she didn’t let it consume her anymore. “I’ve learned balance,” she told me one afternoon as we walked through the gardens at the manor. “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 chapter from another life.

Instead, Elena asked me to help with the company’s charitable foundation, a side project she’d always dreamed of expanding. I took it on, organizing drives for cancer research and community outreach in Portland’s underserved neighborhoods. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it felt right, like I was building something meaningful beyond fixing broken parts.

For the first time, I had purpose that extended past my own survival. We shed the weight of pretense entirely. No more staged photos or scripted appearances. Our days blended into a simple routine. 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 burnt edges. Elena’s hair grew back short and curly after the chemo. A soft auburn halo that she wore with pride. “It’s my badge,” she said, running her fingers through it. a reminder I survived. And she smiled more.

Real, unguarded smiles that lit up her face and made my chest tighten with a warmth I’d never known. We traveled when we could, escaping the city’s hum for the raw beauty of Oregon’s coast. We’d drive my old truck along Highway 101, windows down, the salt air whipping through as we stopped at hidden beaches or hiked misty trails in the redwoods.

One weekend, we camped in a secluded spot near Canon Beach, building a fire under the stars. No luxury tents or catered meals, just a blanket, some marshmallows, and the crash of waves. “This is what I missed,” she confessed, leaning against me as the flames danced. Feeling alive, not just existing. That night, as we lay in the tent listening to the ocean, I asked the question that had lingered since the beginning.

“What if you hadn’t dialedthe wrong number that night? Would we have ever crossed paths? Elellanena turned to me, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the lantern. Maybe not, but I believe the universe sends who we need exactly when we need them. You arrived at my lowest Lucas and pulled me back up. We chose a smaller home on the outskirts of Portland, a cozy craftsman bungalow with a wraparound porch and a backyard big enough for a garden.

The manor stayed as her occasional retreat for business, but this was ours. simple, warm, filled with bookshelves and plants we tended together. Morning started with her brewing tea while I made eggs. Nights ended with us tangled under the covers, her head on my chest, sharing whispers about the future. No grand gestures or diamond rings, just the quiet certainty of choosing each other every day.

It wasn’t a storybook romance. There were still tough days, follow-up scans that made her anxious, bored decisions that kept her up late. But we navigated them side by side, her strength bolstering mine, my steadiness grounding hers. And in those moments, I realized happiness wasn’t about perfection. It was about showing up, about daring to connect with a stranger in the rain, and refusing to let go when the world tried to pull you apart.

Looking back, that wrong number call at 2 a.m. wasn’t a mistake. It was the spark that ignited everything. Elena taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the bridge to something deeper. And together, we’ve built a life that’s real, resilient, and ours.