The billionaire’s substitute

Chapter two- His personal assistant

Katrina POV

The Donovan mansion was a palace of glass and marble. Its coldness seeped into my bones no matter how many fires burned in its grand fireplaces. I had been here for four weeks now, yet I still felt like an intruder walking on borrowed ground.

Every morning I ate breakfast in silence at the far end of the long dining table, listening to the soft clinks of cutlery from Jackson’s parents, who treated me as though I were invisible until they decided I wasn’t.

“Sit up straight,” Mrs. Donovan snapped one morning without lifting her eyes from her newspaper. “If you insist on being seen at this table, at least look presentable, like the daughter-in-law of the Donovan family and not some cheap thing.”

My back stiffened. I said nothing. Words never helped; silence was safer.

“She’s nothing but a temporary solution,” Salazar Donovan muttered, sipping his coffee. “The moment Karina wakes up, this charade ends.”

My fork hovered in midair. Every time they reminded me of that fact, it was like a blade pressed against my throat. I wasn’t their daughter-in-law. I was a placeholder. A shadow used to cover their image.

And Jackson? He sat at the head of the table, the perfect image of composure, never defending me, never contradicting his parents. His emerald eyes flickered briefly in my direction, unreadable, before he returned to scrolling through his phone.

After breakfast, I slipped into the role they had given me: his personal assistant. In truth, it was a leash. I scheduled meetings, answered calls, carried his files. At the office, no one knew I was his wife. To the world, Jackson Donovan was married to Karina Briggs, the glamorous daughter of Donald Briggs. Not the illegitimate stain of the family—the secret sister no one wanted.

The weight of that lie followed me like a shadow.

The mansion at night was worse.

I’d retreat to the guest room assigned to me, a space that looked more like a hotel suite than a home. Jackson and I didn’t share a bed. We barely spoke unless necessary.

But it was impossible to avoid him completely. Sometimes, I’d catch him in the hallways, his tall frame leaning casually against a door frame, his gaze sweeping over me with that cold detachment. It rattled me more than his parents’ insults.

One evening, I stepped into the kitchen for water and found him there, pouring himself a glass of scotch. The amber liquid glowed under the warm lights, and so did the sharp lines of his jaw.

“You’re still awake?” His voice was smooth, cutting through the silence like silk over glass.

I hesitated. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he tipped back the glass, watching me over the rim. His gaze was sharp, dissecting, like he was trying to figure me out.

“Do they bother you?” he asked suddenly, his tone deceptively casual.

My heart skipped. For a moment I thought he was mocking me. “Who?”

“My parents.” He set the glass down, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen.

I swallowed hard, wondering why he asked. “It doesn’t matter.”

He smirked, a bitter curve of his lips. “That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? Keep your head down. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Endure.”

Heat rushed to my face. He wasn’t wrong. But it stung coming from him, the man who let me drown in silence.

“What would you have me do?” I whispered, my voice low but trembling.

His eyes lingered on me a moment longer, unreadable, before he turned and left without answering.

The next day at work, I tried to focus on typing reports when Jason Stuart appeared by my desk. Jason was one of Jackson’s senior executives—handsome, kind, and disarmingly normal in a world where everyone wore masks.

“Lunch?” Jason smiled warmly, balancing two takeout boxes.

I hesitated, glancing at Jackson’s office door, but Jason only chuckled. “Relax. He won’t bite. Besides, you need a break. Come on.”

Something in his tone disarmed me, and for once, I allowed myself a small smile. “Okay.”

We sat in the staff lounge, the hum of conversation around us. Jason asked about my hobbies, my favorite foods, even laughed at my dry jokes. For the first time in years, I felt seen and happy.

What I didn’t know was that upstairs, in his glass-walled office, Jackson Donovan was watching.

That night, Jackson didn’t come home until late. I was curled up on the couch with a book when the front door opened. His footsteps were heavy, his expression darker than usual.

“Why were you having lunch with Jason Stuart?”

The question cracked through the silence, sharp and unexpected.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, intimidating in its intensity. “You were in the staff lounge with him. Laughing. Smiling.”

Something inside me snapped. “And why does that matter? You’ve made it clear I’m nothing here. Invisible. Replaceable. So why should it matter who I talk to?”

For the first time, his composure faltered. His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Because you’re still my wife.”

The words hung between us, charged and heavy. He said it like it was both a curse and a claim.

I stared at him, my heart pounding. “Your wife? You treat me like a ghost. Like I don’t exist. You didn’t even choose me. You wanted my sister.”

His eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something flicker—regret, maybe even longing—but it was gone too quickly.

Or maybe I was mistaken.

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “Stay away from Jason,” he muttered, his voice rougher now. “I won’t say it again.”

And with that, he stormed upstairs, leaving me breathless, shaken, and dangerously aware of the fire simmering between us.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning.

Why did it matter to him if I had lunch with Jason? Why did he care? He’d made it clear this marriage was nothing but a contract, a temporary illusion until Karina woke up.

And yet… the way his voice cracked when he called me his wife lingered in my chest, unsettling and impossible to ignore.

For the first time since stepping into this gilded cage, I wondered if Jackson Donovan wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted the world to believe. And that thought terrified me more than his silence ever had, but the next day at work made me think otherwise.