Chapter 2: Mother For A Week.

Maya POV

“Ting, Ting, Ting.”

If it weren't for the pounding on my head and the sharp pain coming from my ribs, I would've thought I was dreaming.

But dreams didn’t come with overdue rent notices, a hospital wristband still clinging to your skin, or a voicemail from your doctor confirming a biopsy result you already knew was coming.

The sound of my phone beeping had woken me up from the longer deep slumber and I could barely even lift my eyes open. The mascara I applied had gummed my eyes together due to the heavy tears and my heart? They were still aching.

I didn't know how I survived to get into my apartment last night, despite the rain, but I did.

I lazily scrolled through the notifications again, my numb fingers moving over the screen. The Past Due came. Final warning. Debt. The last text from the hospital's billing office.

$180 due to begin treatment.

Without insurance, there was no plan. No options.

No future.

Then I saw it. A ping from an old app I barely remember signing up for during my post-graduation job search frenzy.

High-Paying Temporary Role. URGENT. NDA required. Good with children. Must remain discreet.

I should’ve scrolled past it.

But I didn’t.

I was so tempted to apply. Wasn't it just to take care of children? I was good at it. Even if I haven't done any before, I still can try with one.

I stood up from my bed instantly, rushing over to my mirror to check out my horrible face and disheveled hair. I had dark circles and no amount of makeup would make it clear off.

So I optioned my glasses.

And now, I was standing in front of a sleek glass building with mirrored windows and a polished sign: Stetson Neurosurgical Institute.

I hugged my thin jacket closer. My breath puffed out in the crisp air, and I glanced at the email again.

God help me.

The office looked too clean. Too expensive. Too impossible.

What was I doing here?

God knows how many times I have cursed underneath my breath with my hands fidgeting.

I pushed the glass doors open and stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic was back but fresher, less oppressive than a hospital but still familiar. The receptionist glanced up, her lipstick a shade too perfect.

“Name?” she asked.

I cleared my throat. “Maya Angelou. I have an appointment.”

She tapped her keyboard. “Third floor. Dr. Stetson’s private wing. He’s expecting you.”

Private wing?

I blinked, thanked her, and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed behind me like I’d been sealed into a spaceship.

The office didn’t look like an office at all. It looked like a high-end library married a tech billionaire’s penthouse. Shelves lined with medical journals. Walls of glass that looked out over the city skyline. A leather couch too pristine to sit on.

And at the center of it all, seated behind a steel desk, was him. If I could say.

Xavier Stetson.

He looked up the second I stepped in, and it was like the room froze.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

He looked… surgical.

Not just in the way he was dressed…tailored navy suit, no tie, crisp white shirt open at the collar…but in the way he assessed me. Like I was a chart he’d already read twice and was now determining whether I was salvageable.

“Miss Angelou,” he said, rising to his feet. “Thank you for coming.”

I hesitated, then stepped forward. “You’re the one who posted the listing?”

“I am.”

No small talks. Just straight to the point. Professional.

He gestured toward the chair opposite him. I sat, careful not to make eye contact for too long. He sat too, fingers clasped together on the desk.

“I won’t waste your time,” he said. “I require someone to pose as my daughter’s mother for one week. Four school functions. One private dinner. A few social appearances to satisfy gossip and school politics.”

My lips parted slightly. “I’m sorry… what?”

“I’m a single father. Her mother left three years ago. The other parents at her elite school are relentless. My daughter is at an age where appearances matter more than I’d like to admit. She’s begun asking questions and she shouldn't be bothered.”

“You… want me to pretend to be her mom?”

“Yes.”

I blinked. “Why not just hire a nanny? Or… lie?”

“Because people like to dig,” he said. “I guess you didn't read the description before you applied.”

My eyes widened at the realization as I checked back the email to see “The woman must be ready to be a mother for a week.”

He continued. “This school is for legacies. Generational wealth. Appearances matter. You wouldn’t be the first woman to re-enter a child’s life after a mysterious absence.”

My hands tightened in my lap. “This is insane.”

“Possibly. But I’m paying $2,500 for the week. Half up front.”

The number hit me like a thunderclap. My jaw almost dropped.

That was more than my hospital bill. More than rent. More than I’d seen in my bank account in the last year.

“Why me?” I asked, trying to hold onto logic. “I’m not a teacher or an actress. I’m not qualified to…”

“You passed our screening algorithm. Your demeanor, background, and medical exposure suggest you can operate under pressure. And you’re discreet.”

My throat went dry.

He had vetted me.

“I’ll provide a full background file. A script, essentially. Where we met. Why we separated. Why you’re back. My daughter will never need to know the truth…unless you break character.”

“Is she... okay with this?”

“She doesn’t know you yet.”

That stung. Somehow, that made it worse.

“And what happens after the week ends?”

“You disappear. No contact. We go our separate ways.”

I looked at the file he slid across the table. It was thick. Detailed. Precise.

My fingers hovered over it.

“Why me?” I asked again, softer this time.

For a moment, the clinical mask slipped. Just slightly.

“Because I don’t have time for someone who’ll play games. And you…” He paused. “You look like someone who’s running out of options.”

I met his eyes.

He wasn’t wrong.

I was out of options.

I was dying, broke, and broken in more ways than I wanted to count. I had nothing left to lose.

And his offer? His insane, outrageous offer?

It could buy me time.

I picked up the file. It was heavy in my hands. The tab read “Maya Stetson (Temporary)” in bold letters.

“Learn everything in here,” Xavier said, voice steady. “My daughter can’t know this is fake. Not even for a second.”

I swallowed hard. And nodded.