I stared at my reflection in the dressing-room mirror, makeup lights casting sharp shadows on my face.
My mind was chaos.
Where the hell am i supposed to find a man in a week?!
"Fucking shit," I muttered, rubbing my temples.
My phone buzzed on the countertop, a reminder for today's script reading. I ignored it.
I'd already told my handler I wouldn't make it. I blamed "exhaustion" and told them to send the final script revisions by email.
Let them manage today's PR shoots without me.
Instead, I forced myself to get ready.
I slipped into a white long-sleeved blouse—clean lines, tailored perfectly for my figure, the kind stylists always fought over for my shoots. Black cigarette trousers hugged my hips. A pair of pointed black heels made me even taller, even more imposing.
I tied my hair in a sleek low ponytail. Classic. Camera-friendly. A swipe of deep red lipstick. Movie-star polish, even if I was only headed to my doctor's appointment.
Not that anyone would dare photograph me at the hospital. My team had already called ahead, securing the side entrance, like always.
—
I parked in the VIP section, flicking off the ignition just as the door opened for me.
Nurse Cha stood waiting, clipboard in hand.
"Miss Araneta," she greeted smoothly. "This way."
I nodded once, sunglasses still on, walking through polished corridors. People stared, but quickly looked away when i met their eyes.
I was used to that.
I was used to all of this.
But not this.
Not the part where my parents demanded a boyfriend or else they'd set me up like some old-money arranged-marriage deal.
My stomach twisted.
As soon as i stepped into the consultation room, I froze.
A man stood at the desk, flipping through my medical file.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a fitted navy dress shirt, lab coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Hair dark brown, a few strands falling across his forehead. Sharp cheekbones. Jaw like it was carved from stone. Glasses perched on his nose.
My gaze flickered to his name tag.
Gutierrez.
My heart actually skipped.
No fucking way.
I took the seat in front of him slowly.
He hadn't even noticed I was staring like an idiot.
"Miss Araneta," he said without looking up. His voice was deep. Calm. "We need to talk about your tests."
I swallowed. Find your words. Claudia. Any words except—
"Marry me," I blurted.
He looked up, startled. "I'm sorry—what?"
Shit.
I coughed, waving it off. "Nothing."
He squinted at me over his glasses, clearly fighting a smile. But he didn't push it. Instead, he returned to the file.
"I reviewed everything. There's no injury. No illness. No explanation. You were born without the ability to smell."
I clenched my jaw.
"So there's no cure?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Nothing we can do."
I slumped back in the chair, letting out a long sigh.
"Great," I muttered. "Just great."
He paused, clearly trying to be professional. "It won't affect your overall health. You can live normally."
I snorted humorlessly. "Normal. I'm literally an actress who can't even smell the fake smoke on set or the burning wires. Or… anything."
He tilted his head, watching me. "That's… ironic."
I glared. He chuckled.
Bastard.
I needed a distraction.
"Can i have your number?" I asked, too quickly.
His brows went up.
I felt my ears go hot.
"For… emergencies. Medical emergencies," I clarified lamely.
He held back a smile, but handed me his card anyway.
Dr. Raphael Sebastian Gutierrez.
Perfect.
I gave him my best actress smile. "Thanks, Doc."
I left the hospital trying not to think about my parents' ultimatum.
Bring him to dinner. Next week.
Raphael Sebastian Gutierrez.
I literally said his surname.
Fuck.
I didn't go home.
—
Instead, I drove to my manager's office, signing autographs for staff along the way, putting on that camera-ready smile.
But in my head? I was doing math.
Schedules. Press conferences. Tapings.
Where in all that was i supposed to find a man?
Later that day, after leaving the studio, I found myself parked outside a quiet subdivision.
I checked the loan contract again.
Same surname.
My fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Screw it.
I got out and knocked on the door.
When it opened, I nearly swallowed my tongue.
Dr. Raphael Gutierrez.
His eyes widened. "You again?"
"Yeah," I managed. Then i held up the loan contract.
He glanced at it, confused.
I cleared my throat. "Your sister owes me three million pesos."
His jaw tightened.
Bingo.
-
A few hours later, we were at a corner café.
He was across from me, tapping the table.
"Look," he said, voice even. "Can i pay monthly? Three years. I'll make it work."
I drummed my nails on the ceramic mug.
"Three years?" I raised a brow.
He bristled, but didn't back down.
That's when it hit me.
I sipped my coffee, leaned back, and dropped it:
"Or you could marry me."
He blinked. Twice.
"What?"
I didn't even flinch. "Just for a year. Then you're off the hook. I get my parents off my back. You clear your sister's debt."
He laughed. Once. Bitterly. "You're insane."
"Thank you."
He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"No."
I shrugged. "Fine. Then pay me in three days."
He started explaining how he wasn't rich.
How his family went bankrupt. How his sister tried to save them, got scammed, lost everything.
It didn't soften me.
But it explained him.
I took a last sip of coffee.
"Think about it," I said lightly, standing.
He didn't answer.
I walked out into the night.
—
The next morning, I couldn't focus on anything.
Lines to memorize. A new script on the table. Interviews scheduled.
But my brain kept short-circuiting.
Six days.
No plan.
No man.
I slammed the script shut.
Vanessa, my handler, peeked in.
"Bad time?"
"Cancel my next appointment," I snapped.
"Uh. Sure."
I stormed out.
That afternoon, I found myself at the hospital again.
Bouquet in hand.
I marched straight into Raphael Gutierrez's office.
He looked up, startled.
Before he could speak, I shoved the flowers at him.
"What is this?" he asked warily.
I rolled my eyes. "A flower."
He frowned. "We're not allowed to accept—"
I cut him off.
"Marry me," I said, clear as day.
His eyes went wide.
Some nurse outside literally gasped.
Great. An audience.
Raphael's jaw clenched.
"Are you insane? Stop saying that here!"
I didn't move.
"Just think about it," I hissed.
He glared at me.
A patient chose that moment to barrel in crying about stomach pains, breaking the tension.
I stepped back, scowling.
Raphael shot me a death glare over the patient's shoulder as he worked.
I sighed.
"Tomorrow," I mouthed.
He shook his head so hard his hair flopped.
But i didn't care.
I wasn't leaving without a fight.