EPISODE 1
The hospital lights buzzed like dying insects.
Isabella Johnson sat on the cold plastic chair outside Bed 14B, KENYATTA NATIONAL HOSPITAL, and counted her shillings again. 3,240.
The bill on her lap said 4,700,000.
Her hands shook. Not from cold. From math that would never work.
Inside the room, her mother coughed. A wet, ugly sound that had become Isabella’s lullaby for the last six months. Cancer. Stage 4. The doctor had used words like "palliative" and "we’re sorry" and "payment upfront."
Isabella was twenty-two years old. She had no father. No mother who could answer her. No siblings. No uncle who picked up the phone.
She had an aunt. Or she did, ten years ago.
Aunt Mariam took her in when the car crash took her parents on the Nairobi-Mombasa highway. Isabella was twelve. She remembered the police at the door. She remembered the black dresses. She remembered Aunt Mariam saying, "You’re my blood now," while counting how many extra mouths she had to feed.
Aunt Marriam died two years later. Heart attack. No insurance.
Since then, it had been just Isabella. And now, her mother.
Her mother wasn’t her biological mother. She was Aunt Marriam’s younger sister. The only person who ever called Isabella "mtoto wangu" and meant it. When the cancer came, Isabella didn’t think. She just started working.
Three jobs.
Morning: Classes at Nairobi Metropolitan College. Business Administration. Scholarship that covered 40%. Not the rest.
Evening: Waitress at The Rustic Plate, a restaurant in Westlands where the plates were expensive and the tips were not.
Night: Homework. And hospital chairs.
The rich kids at college called her "Ghost." Because she was always there, always quiet, always in the same two blouses. Because she never went to the parties at Karen. Because when group projects were assigned, no one picked her until the teacher forced them.
"She’ll drag us down," Melissa had said last week. Melissa drove a Range Rover and posted brunches every Sunday. "Her English is fine but she smells like onions."
Isabella had smiled. She always smiled. Then she went to the bathroom and threw up from hunger.
Her boss at The Rustic Plate was Mr. Otieno. Fat, gold chains, mouth that smelled like beer at 3PM.
"Johnson! Table 8 spilled wine. Clean it. Now."
"Yes, sir."
"And don’t you dare break another glass. That’s coming from your pay."
"Yes, sir."
He paid her 15,000 a month. Minus broken glasses. Minus being late when the hospital called. Minus "attitude."
Last week he grabbed her wrist when she dropped a tray. "Clumsy girl. You think I pay you to cry?"
She didn’t cry. Not there. She waited until she was on the matatu home. Until she was in the single room she rented in Githurai for 4,000. Until the lights were off.
Then she cried into her pillow so silently that even the cockroaches couldn’t hear.
She was a good student. Top of her class in Accounting and Economics. Teachers liked her. "Isabella has potential," her lecturer wrote on her midterm. "But attendance is an issue."
Attendance was an issue because her mother had chemo on Tuesdays. Because the landlord knocked on Thursdays. Because sometimes there was no bus fare and she walked 8 kilometers.
She had no one else.
Her father’s family said "not our problem" when Aunt Marriam died.
Her mother’s family said "we are also struggling."
The church helped once. 5,000 shillings and prayers.
Prayers didn’t pay for chemo.
Tonight was different.
Tonight the doctor, Dr. Wanjiku, pulled her aside. "Isabella. We can’t keep her without a deposit. 500,000 by tomorrow morning, or we discharge her."
"But she’ll die," Isabella whispered.
"I’m sorry," Dr. Wanjiku said. And she looked sorry.
Isabella walked out of the hospital at 11PM. The rain had started. It wasn’t the soft rain. It was the kind that drowned Nairobi. It ran down her face and she didn’t wipe it because what was the point.
She had 3,240 shillings. She needed 500,000 by morning. She needed 4.7 million to save her mother’s life.
The math didn’t work.
She sat at a bus stop, soaked, with her college books in a plastic bag on her lap. Her phone buzzed. A message from Mr. Otieno: `Be early tomorrow. Or don’t come back.`
She laughed. It sounded broken even to her.
That was when the black SUV stopped.
It didn’t splash her. It stopped perfectly, so the rain hit the pavement and not her shoes. The window rolled down.
A man.
Black suit. Black umbrella. Black eyes that looked like they had seen things she couldn’t name.
"You’re Isabella Johnson," he said. Not a question.
She nodded. Water dripped from her hair.
"I know about your mother," he said. "I know about the bill. I know about Mr. Otieno’s hands."
Isabella went cold. "Who are you?"
"Someone who can fix your math problem."
He opened the passenger door. "Get in."
"I don’t know you."
"You don’t have to," he said. "You just have to say yes."
On the seat between them was a black duffel bag. It wasn’t zipped all the way. She could see bundles. Cash. More money than she’d seen in her life.
"5 million," the man said. "For your mother. Tonight."
Isabella stared at it. Then at him. "What do you want?"
His mouth curved. It wasn’t a smile. "My name is Xavier Scott. And I need a wife."
The rain kept falling.
"Not a real wife," Xavier Scott continued. "On paper. Six months. You live in my house. You attend my events. You wear my ring. In return, I pay the hospital. I pay your school fees. I pay you 5 million more when we’re done."
Isabella’s throat closed. "Why me?"
"Because you’re desperate," Xavier said simply. "Because you won’t ask questions. Because when I looked at you just now, you didn’t beg."
He pulled out papers. A contract. Thick.
"Rule 1: No love."
"Rule 2: Share my bed."
"Rule 3: Don’t ask about the blood on my hands."
Isabella flinched. "Bed?"
"Separate sides," Xavier said. "For now. But you will be in my room. Every night. Appearances."
She thought of her mother. Of Bed 14B. Of the cough.
She thought of Mr. Otieno’s hand on her wrist.
She thought of Melissa and the Range Rover and being called Ghost.
She thought of being alone.
Her hand reached for the pen.
Outside, thunder cracked over Nairobi.
Inside the car, Isabella Johnson, the girl with no one, signed her name.
And the Devil closed the contract.
