Name: Chasing His Substitute Wife
Rating: 5.0 (4 reviews)

Chapter 1 How It All Began

Lyra's POV

I hated the hospital.

The sterile smell of disinfectant clung to everything, sharp and suffocating, mixing with the endless beeping of machines. It felt like the walls of the intensive care unit were closing in on me, suffocating my thoughts.

In my hand was the bill, six figures. Just for the consultancy.

My chest tightened, and I stared at the numbers again as if they'd magically change. How was I supposed to come up with that kind of money? Not in a year, not in two.

Not even if I worked myself to death.

I turned my gaze to the frail figure lying on the bed. My grandmother, the strongest woman I knew, looked so small beneath the layers of blankets.

I bit my lips as I felt reality press down on my shoulders as her faint smile greeted me.

"You're back from the accounts section," she said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "How did it go?"

I forced a smile, swallowing the panic threatening to spill out. "Nothing to worry about, Grandma," I lied, trying to sound cheerful. "I'll ask my boss for overtime. We'll figure it out."

She studied me, her knowing eyes seeing through the facade. I could feel my resolve cracking, but I couldn't let her see the despair lurking beneath the surface.

"Did the doctor tell you?" she asked suddenly.

I shook my head, nervous about the answer. "No, not yet."

Her frail hand reached for mine, her touch light but grounding. "Lupus," she said softly.

The word hung in the air, foreign and heavy. "Lupus?" I repeated, my brows furrowing. "What is that?"

Her lips twitched into a weak smile. "It's what I call a rich man's sickness."

"Grandma, this is not the time for jokes," I said, my voice wavering between sternness and concern.

She chuckled softly, a sound that somehow felt both comforting and heartbreaking. "What do you expect me to do, darling? Cry about it? We have to find humor somewhere, or I might just add stress to my list of ailments."

Her attempt at lightening the mood didn't soothe me. The reality of the situation was sinking in too fast. Before I could respond, a nurse entered the room, breaking the moment. She smiled politely before glancing at me.

"How's everything going in here?" the nurse asked gently.

I hesitated. "Could you... could you explain what lupus is?" My voice felt small, uncertain.

The nurse nodded, pulling up a chair beside me. "Lupus is an autoimmune disease," she began. "It means the body's immune system attacks its own tissues and organs."

I blinked, trying to keep up. "Wait, so... it's like her body is fighting itself?"

"Exactly," the nurse replied. "It can affect many parts of the body-joints, skin, kidneys, even the lungs. That's why her breathing has been a concern."

"And it's... serious?"

She hesitated, her eyes softening. "It's manageable with the right treatment. But without it..." She trailed off, letting the unspoken words hang between us.

I swallowed hard. "And how much will the treatment cost?"

The nurse handed me another paper. "This includes everything she'll need."

I glanced at the numbers and felt the air leave my lungs. "This can't be real," I muttered, shaking my head.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "You'll need to settle this with the accounts section," she said. "Your grandmother's lungs are failing. We are afraid it may start moving to other parts as well."

She didn't finish, but she didn't have to. The urgency in her voice said enough. When she left, the silence felt heavier.

Grandma's frail voice broke it. "You're so young, Lyra. Let this old woman go, alright? Don't ruin your life for me."

"Don't say that," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "I can't lose you."

Her fingers brushed away my tears, her smile unwavering despite everything. "You're stronger than you think, darling. You'll handle this."

Her words were meant to reassure, but they only deepened the ache in my chest. I left her room, the sterile hospital corridor stretching endlessly before me. Each step to the accounts section felt heavier than the last.

The staff offered me a payment plan, but even the first installment seemed impossible. Desperation clawed at me. As I walked away, an unsettling thought crossed my mind-selling my body. The idea churned my stomach, but the fear of losing Grandma was stronger.

"No," I muttered to myself. "I can't do that."

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the darker corners of the web. Odd jobs sometimes appeared there. Maybe I'd get lucky. That's when I saw it: a request for blood donation. The pay was astonishing-enough to cover Grandma's medication and more. The only catch? The recipient needed a rare blood type, B-.

Lucky me, it was exactly my blood type.

I hesitated, rereading the post for the third time. "This has to be a scam," I muttered under my breath, my finger hovering over the apply button. But what choice did I have? Grandma needed me to act, and I was out of options.

With trembling fingers, I filled out the application form, my thoughts racing. "This is crazy," I whispered, hitting submit and half-expecting nothing to happen.

Minutes ticked by

I paced the room, my phone clutched in my hand, when a sudden buzz made me jump. A notification popped up with an address and a time.

"Already?" I stared at the screen, my stomach flipping. "This is happening too fast."

Still, I grabbed my coat and left. The cab ride to the outskirts of the city felt like an eternity. When we finally pulled up to the address, I froze.

The house was enormous, its sleek, glass facade glowing faintly under the streetlights. "This can't be it," I murmured, double-checking the address on my phone.

"You getting out or what?" the cab driver called, breaking my trance.

"Uh, yeah," I said, fumbling with the door handle. My heart pounded as I approached the entrance, the faint hum of a security system making the silence even heavier.

"Relax," I whispered to myself, forcing my legs to keep moving. "You're doing this for Grandma."

A man stood by the door, his emerald eyes studying me with quiet intensity. His features were sharp-a chiseled jawline, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a perfectly styled head of dark hair.

He radiated a calm authority that unnerved me.

"You must be Miss Quinn," he said smoothly, his voice like silk.

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