After Funding His Fake Illness, I Married the Hidden Tycoon

The clock read 11:45 PM when I finally untied my apron at Rosie's Diner. My feet throbbed in protest, and the small of my back ached from hours of carrying plates and refilling coffee cups. But there was no time to rest. Marcus needed me.

"Heading out already, Sophia?" Chloe asked, concern etching her tired features as she wiped down the counter. "You look dead on your feet, honey."

I forced a smile while checking my phone again. Three missed calls from Marcus, each voicemail more pitiful than the last.

"*Soph, please... I'm feeling so weak today. Could you bring some of your chicken soup? I don't think I can make it through the night without it...*"

"Marcus isn't doing well," I explained, pulling on my thin jacket. "I made soup this morning before my shift at the bookstore. Just need to pick it up and bring it to him."

Chloe's lips tightened, but she said nothing. She never did when it came to Marcus. Instead, she squeezed my shoulder and slipped me a paper bag. "Leftover apple pie. At least eat something yourself for once."

I thanked her and rushed out into the Brooklyn night, the late October air biting through my jacket. My second job at the small bookstore had ended at 5 PM, giving me just enough time to make soup before starting my diner shift at 6. I'd been running on four hours of sleep for months now, but what choice did I have? Marcus's treatments weren't going to pay for themselves.

The subway ride to my tiny studio apartment was a blur of nodding off and jerking awake. I grabbed the thermos of soup from my refrigerator and headed back out, just as the first fat raindrops began to fall.

By the time I emerged from the subway in Manhattan, the rain had become a downpour. I didn't have an umbrella—I'd left my last one at Marcus's place last week and couldn't afford to replace it yet. Not with his next treatment payment due in three days.

I ran the six blocks to his luxury high-rise, the soup thermos clutched against my chest, rain plastering my hair to my face and soaking through my shoes. The doorman gave me a pitying look as I dripped across the marble lobby floor.

"Evening, Miss Chen," he said, buzzing me through. I'd been coming here so often for the past three years that all the staff knew me by name.

In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls and winced. Pale face, dark circles under my eyes, wet clothes clinging to my too-thin frame. When was the last time I'd eaten a full meal? I couldn't remember.

But none of that mattered. Marcus needed me. He was fighting for his life, and I'd promised to be there every step of the way. What was a little exhaustion compared to what he was going through?

The elevator opened on the 32nd floor. I fished out the key Marcus had given me last year and approached his door, my squeaking shoes leaving wet prints on the plush hallway carpet.

I was about to insert the key when I heard it—laughter. Not just Marcus's laugh, but several voices, loud and boisterous. My hand froze mid-air.

"Dude, I still can't believe she bought that whole cancer story!" A male voice I recognized as Philipp, one of Marcus's friends.

"Cancer's too risky—people ask questions," Marcus's voice replied, smooth and amused, nothing like the weak, pained tone he used with me. "Rare blood disorder is the way to go. Doctors 'still figuring it out,' expensive treatments that 'insurance won't cover'—it's foolproof."

More laughter. The soup thermos nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers.

"And she's still working those two shit jobs?" Another voice asked.

"Three last month," Marcus replied, pride in his voice. "She picked up weekend shifts at some catering company. Fucking gold mine, I'm telling you."

I couldn't breathe. The hallway seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

"Oh, check this out," Philipp's voice again. "Just got the professional shots back."

"Damn, that looks even better than I thought," Marcus said appreciatively. "How much did you get for it?"

"Twelve grand. Diamond was legit vintage. Could've gotten more if I'd waited, but—"

"Hey, we needed Ibiza money, right?" Marcus laughed. "Not like my naïve angel will ever know what happened to grandma's precious necklace. She thinks it paid for my 'special medication.' Should've seen her face when she handed it over—like she was saving my life or something."

The soup thermos crashed to the floor, hot liquid splashing across my already soaked shoes. My grandmother's diamond necklace—the only thing I had left of my family, the last connection to the woman who'd raised me before the foster system—sold for a vacation.

I sank to my knees, the world around me dissolving as three years of sacrifice, love, and devotion revealed themselves as nothing but a cruel, elaborate lie.