THE BILLIONAIRE'S FAKE WIDOW

The billionaire I had been paid to mourn was standing in my bedroom, dripping rainwater onto the carpet, with a gun pointed at my heart. And the first words out of his mouth were, “Who the hell told you that you could wear my wife's ring?” I couldn't breathe. Six hours ago, Adrian Vale was dead. His face had been plastered across every news channel in the country. His private jet had crashed over the Atlantic. No survivors. Nobody recovered. A tragic loss for the business world. And now he was here. Alive. Furious. And looking at me as though he already knew I was lying. “Answer me.” His voice was low, dangerously calm. I glanced at the gun, then at the man holding it. He was taller than I had imagined from the photographs, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and a small cut near his left temple. His black shirt clung to his shoulders, soaked through by the storm outside. He looked like death had tried to claim him and failed. “I—I can explain.” “Can you?” His gaze dropped to my left hand. The gold ring on my finger suddenly felt like a handcuff. “I was hired,” I whispered. “By whom?” “I don't know his real name.” Adrian's expression hardened. “Then you have about ten seconds to convince me you're not here to finish what the crash started.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Because the truth was, I didn't know whether the people who hired me wanted him alive or dead. And I had just moved into his house. As his fake widow. Six hours earlier, I had been crying in a lawyer's office over a photograph of my brother. Noah's face stared back at me from the screen of a tablet. He looked exhausted, frightened, and nothing like the criminal the police claimed he was. “They're going to send him to prison,” I said. Across the desk, a silver-haired man adjusted his glasses. “Your brother is accused of stealing nearly four million dollars from a company connected to the Vale Group. The evidence is substantial.” “The evidence is fake.” “Can you prove that?” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Noah had worked as a junior accountant. He had discovered irregular transactions and reported them to his supervisor. Two weeks later, the money vanished, and the blame landed on him. Now his bail had been denied, his legal bills were piling up, and every person I approached seemed more interested in protecting the company than discovering the truth. I had sold my car. Emptied my savings. Borrowed money from friends. I was running out of options. The lawyer slid a folder across the desk. “There may be another way to help your brother.” I didn't touch it. “What kind of way?” “A private arrangement. You would receive enough money to settle his legal debts and fund a proper defense.” “How much?” “Five hundred thousand dollars.” I stared at him. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. “Five hundred thousand?” “Upon completion of the agreement.” My mouth went dry. That amount could get Noah the lawyers he needed. It could buy him time, resources, and a chance to prove his innocence. “What do I have to do?” The lawyer opened the folder. Inside was a photograph of a handsome man in a black suit, standing before a wall of cameras. He had the kind of face that made people look twice and the kind of expression that suggested he was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Adrian Vale. Thirty-three years old. Billionaire. CEO. One of the most powerful men in the country. And, according to the headline printed beneath his photograph, dead. “Mr. Vale's body was never recovered,” the lawyer explained. “His will contains provisions that make the future of his company uncertain. For the next six months, the family needed the public to believe his private marriage was genuine and that his wife remained loyal to his memory.” I looked up sharply. “His wife?” “A marriage that was never publicly announced. The records are private. Your role is to appear as his widow until the anniversary of his presumed death.” I laughed once, without humor. “You want me to pretend to be married to a dead billionaire?” “I want you to help preserve a delicate situation.” “That's fraud.” “It's a private arrangement involving confidential family matters.” “That's a very elegant way of saying fraud.” For the first time, the lawyer smiled. “You are free to decline.” I thought of Noah in his cell. I thought of the bills on my kitchen counter and the calls I had stopped answering because I couldn't bear to tell anyone that I had failed him. “What happens if I refuse?” “Nothing. Your brother's case proceeds as it is.” The answer settled over me like ice. I looked at Adrian Vale's photograph again. He was a stranger. A dead stranger, according to everyone who mattered. Six months of pretending to mourn him in exchange for Noah's freedom. It was insane. It was dangerous. It was the only offer anyone had made me. “What are the rules?” I asked. The lawyer's smile disappeared. “You will live at the Vale estate. You will attend certain public events. You will follow the instructions of the family's representatives and say nothing about the arrangement to the press.” “And?” He paused. “There is one room you must never enter.” I frowned. “What room?” “The west wing of the mansion is locked. You are not to go near it, attempt to open it, or ask questions about what it contains.” That should have been the moment I walked away. Instead, I signed the agreement. Because desperate people don't always choose between right and wrong. Sometimes, they choose between a terrible decision and watching someone they love lose everything. At eight that evening, I arrived at the Vale estate. The mansion stood behind iron gates at the end of a long, winding driveway. Rain blurred the windows of the car as we approached, and the lights of the house glowed against the dark sky like watchful eyes. A woman in a dark uniform met me at the entrance. “Mara Ellis,” she introduced herself. “Housekeeper.” “Elena Hart.” “I know who you are.” Something about the way she said it made my stomach tighten. Mara led me through a grand hall filled with portraits, polished marble, and expensive furniture that looked too beautiful to be touched. At the center of the hall stood an enormous photograph of Adrian Vale. Black suit. Cold eyes. Perfect smile. Fresh white roses lay beneath it. I stopped. The picture made his death feel real in a way the news had not. “His family will be here tomorrow,” Mara said. “Until then, you'll have the east bedroom.” “Thank you.” She handed me a small velvet box. Inside lay a gold wedding ring. I stared at it. “Is this really his?” “It's the ring you are expected to wear.” That wasn't an answer. But I slipped it onto my finger anyway. Mara watched me for a long moment. “Mr. Vale was not an easy man,” she said quietly. “If you intend to survive in this house, Miss Hart, learn when to speak and when to keep silent.” “Is that advice or a warning?” Her expression didn't change. “Perhaps both.” Then she left me alone. I stood in the middle of the bedroom, surrounded by silk curtains, expensive paintings, and a bed large enough for three people. My suitcase looked painfully small beside the wardrobe. I had agreed to play a billionaire's widow. I hadn't expected the house to feel like a tomb. I was unpacking when I heard a sound from the corridor. A footstep. Then another. I opened the door. The corridor was empty. At the far end, a narrow passage disappeared into darkness. I remembered the lawyer's warning about the west wing and forced myself to turn away. Then I heard it. A man's voice. Low. Rough. Barely audible. “Elena.” Every hair on my arms stood up. I froze. No one in this house should have known my name except the lawyer and Mara. “Elena Hart.” This time, the voice came from behind the locked door at the end of the passage. I took one step toward it. Then another. My sensible side screamed at me to return to the bedroom. But the same curiosity that had ruined my chances of keeping my life simple pushed me forward. I reached the door. There was no handle, only a keypad and a small metal plate bearing the initials A.V. I pressed my ear against the wood. Silence. Then three sharp knocks sounded from the other side. I stumbled backward. A phone vibrated in my pocket. An unknown number. Unknown: Whatever you hear tonight, do not open the west wing. My blood turned cold. A second message appeared. Unknown: The man in that room is not supposed to be alive. Behind the door, a lock clicked. And a voice whispered, “Elena, if you want your brother to live, open this door.” I stared at the keypad. Then at the message. Then at the ring on my finger. I had taken five hundred thousand dollars to pretend to be a dead man's widow. But the dead man was calling my name. And somehow, he knew about Noah. I entered the first four digits that came to mind. The lock flashed red. ACCESS DENIED. From the other side, the man laughed once. “You really are the wrong woman for this job.” My fingers trembled over the keypad. “Who are you?” A pause. Then he answered with a name that made my entire body go numb. “Adrian Vale.” The lights went out. And someone grabbed me from behind.