THE BILLIONAIRE'S DEAD WIFE

The auction notice was still nailed to our gate when they lowered my father's casket. I stood in my only black dress, holding my mother who could not stand, watching red mud stick to the wood. The bank man stood five feet behind us, not praying. He was looking at his watch. He had told me at 7am: "Zara, if you don't bring $25,000 by Friday, we take the house." My father died three weeks ago. A freight truck from Zuri Freight Corp. Jackknifed on the highway in the rain. Police said brake failure. Company said act of God. No one paid us. That's when the black convoy stopped at our cemetery. Three SUVs. No one gets three SUVs for a funeral in our town unless it's government or God. The middle door opened. He stepped out. I had only seen him on business magazines my father kept. Damian Croft. 34. CEO of Croft Atlantic Logistics. Net worth $1.8 billion. Face like a cut diamond. Suit that cost more than my father's whole life insurance. He didn't look at my father. He looked at me. And he stopped breathing. He walked through the mud like it wasn't there, stopped one foot from me, and pulled out his phone. He turned the screen to me. A woman in a red silk dress, at a gala. Hair in waves. Smile that had never been hungry. My face. My exact face. Same small scar above my left eyebrow from when I fell at age six. Same eyes. "Who is this?" my voice cracked. "My wife," he said. His voice was low and hoarse. "Elara. Dead one year and four months." My mother made a sound. "Why are you showing me this?" I said. "Because my mother is dying. Pancreatic cancer. Three months, maybe two. Her last wish is to see Elara one more time. She keeps asking. She doesn't know Elara is dead. We told her Elara is in treatment in Europe." He looked at the bank man, at our house with the auction paper, at my mother's shaking hands. "I will pay your $25,000 debt today. I will put $65,000 in an account for your mother. Total $90,000 for one year. You live in my estate, Blackwood Manor, as Elara. You eat with my mother. You attend two charity dinners. You do not work. You do not speak to press." He took an envelope from his inside pocket. A contract, thick, with a gold clip. "One year contract marriage. You will be my wife on paper for my mother's sake. After she passes, we divorce quietly. You leave with the money." I should have said no. I should have screamed. My mother fainted into me. The bank man's phone rang — the auctioneer. "And the rules?" I whispered, because billionaires always have rules. "Rule one: You never enter the north wing third floor. It's locked. It's Elara's studio. No one enters." "Rule two: You never ask anyone in the house how Elara died." "Rule three: You never wear red. She died in red." He placed a black pen on top of the contract, on top of my father's grave dirt. I looked at the photo again. That woman had my face but she had never worried about $25,000. "What did she die of?" I asked. His eyes turned to ice. "Rule two, Zara." He knew my name. He had investigated me. My mother was on the ground now, sobbing into the mud. The bank man said, "Friday, Zara. Friday." I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so hard the mud on my shoes splashed. I signed. Zara Vale. On my father's burial day, I sold myself to a billionaire to be his dead wife. Damian Croft folded the contract. "Car leaves at 6am tomorrow. One suitcase. Don't bring anything red. And Zara —" He leaned close. His cologne was expensive and cold. "Do not make me regret that you look exactly like her." He walked away. The convoy left. Behind me, the gravediggers started shoveling. My mother whispered, "What did you do?" I didn't know. But in his phone, that dead woman in red was smiling at me like she knew. ---