The Billionaire's Secret wife

I couldn't sleep that night. I sat on the edge of the guest bed Logan's housekeeper had shown me to, still in the dress I'd been married in twice over, staring at the wall until the sky outside turned gray with morning. Somewhere down the hall, or maybe in another wing entirely, Adrianna was sleeping in the same house, under the same roof, married to the same man. By the time the sun was fully up, I had made my decision. I found Logan in his study, already dressed, a cup of coffee untouched on the desk in front of him. He looked like he hadn't slept either. "We need to end this," I said, before he could speak first. "The marriage. All of it." He didn't argue right away, which surprised me. He simply watched me for a moment, something unreadable behind his eyes. "Scarlett—" "Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't try to talk me out of it. Yesterday I stood in a church and married a man I'd known for five minutes because I was too proud to walk out alone. That was a mistake. I see that now. And you already had a wife you never bothered to mention. This isn't a marriage, Logan. It's a disaster wearing a ring." "I know." "Then you'll agree to a divorce." He was quiet for a long moment, long enough that I thought he might refuse. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual. "I don't want to." "That's not your decision to make alone." "I know that too." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, and for a second, something almost vulnerable crossed his face before he shut it away again. "But I'll call my lawyer. If it's what you want, I won't stand in the way." It wasn't the fight I'd braced myself for, and somehow that unsettled me more than if he'd argued. I nodded, arms crossed tight over my chest, and watched him pick up his phone. The call didn't take long. Logan spoke in short, clipped sentences, the kind of voice he probably used to close deals worth more than my entire life. When he hung up, he didn't look at me right away. "He'll be here within the hour." "Good." An hour later, a man in an expensive gray suit was seated across from us in Logan's study, a leather folder open on his lap. His name was Mr. Whitfield, and he had the practiced, unbothered calm of someone who had delivered bad news to wealthy people for a living and never once flinched doing it. "Given the circumstances," Whitfield began, "a marriage entered into so soon after a previous relationship, combined with an existing marital entanglement on Mr. Hawthorne's part, this situation is legally delicate. If we move too quickly to dissolve it, it opens both of you to scrutiny. Fraud allegations. Media attention neither of you wants." "I don't care about media attention," I said. "I want this over." Whitfield offered a thin, professional smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "I understand. However, for the divorce to proceed cleanly, without inviting a bigamy investigation that could implicate you both, the marriage needs to appear to have been given a genuine chance. That means residing together. Presenting as a couple, at least publicly, for a period of time before filing." My stomach dropped. "How long." "Eight months." "Eight months?" I nearly came out of my chair. "Absolutely not. I am not living in this house, under the same roof as his actual wife, for eight months." "Mrs. Anderson." Whitfield's voice stayed maddeningly even. "I understand this isn't what you hoped to hear. But the alternative is a legal mess that could follow you for years. An expedited divorce, given the bigamy issue, would draw exactly the kind of attention that ends careers and reputations. Eight months of cohabitation establishes a paper trail that protects you both. After that period, I can file the divorce quietly, with minimal exposure." I looked at Logan, waiting for him to object, to tell his lawyer this was insane, that there had to be another way. He said nothing. He simply sat there, arms crossed, jaw tight, letting his lawyer's words settle into the room like a verdict. "You're not even going to argue this?" I asked him. "I already told you I'd call him," Logan said quietly. "This is what he advises." "Convenient," I muttered, "that his advice happens to keep me here." Something flickered across Logan's face, there and gone before I could name it. "That's not what this is." "Isn't it?" Whitfield cleared his throat, unbothered by the tension thickening the air between us. "I assure you, Mrs. Anderson, this is standard counsel given the specifics of your situation. I have no personal stake in the outcome." I wanted to believe that. I wasn't sure I did. I sat back, pressing my fingers against my temples, trying to think past the ringing in my ears. Eight months. Eight months in this house, with Adrianna down the hall, with a man I barely knew and a marriage that had never been real to begin with. "Fine," I said finally, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "Eight months. And then I want this over. Completely. No more surprises. No more secret wives. No more lawyers telling me what I have to endure." "You have my word," Logan said. I almost laughed. His word hadn't meant much so far. Whitfield closed his folder and rose, offering a polite nod to us both, as if he hadn't just handed down eight months of my life like a sentence. "I'll draft the necessary documents. In the meantime, I'd advise discretion. The fewer people who know the specifics of this arrangement, the easier the eventual divorce will be." After he left, the study fell into a heavy silence. Logan stood by the window, his back to me, his shoulders set in a way that made him look, for the first time, less like an untouchable billionaire and more like a man trapped by his own choices, same as I was. "Eight months," I said again, mostly to myself, testing the weight of it. "I'll stay out of your way," Logan said, not turning around. "As much as I can, in my own house." "That's not the problem, Logan." He finally turned to face me. "Then what is?" I thought of Adrianna's voice in the foyer, calm and cutting. *Welcome to the family. I hope you like sharing.* "The problem," I said, "is that I have no idea what I actually agreed to yesterday. And now I'm stuck finding out for eight months." I didn't wait for his answer. I turned and walked out of the study, leaving him standing there in the morning light, and went to find a room in that enormous house that felt, even a little, like it could be mine for however long I was forced to stay.