The Billionaire's Fourth Wife

One Week Ago

*Victoria's Point of View*

*(Flashback — seven days before the announcement)*

The office door is heavy and dark, I stand in front of it. My hand hovers over the handle for one long heartbeat, and I breathe slow,

I open the door.

The room is a battlefield. White paper covers the floor like snow after a storm. Papers pile high and crooked across the mahogany desk, teetering towers that look ready to fall at the smallest breath.

Norman stands in the middle of it all. His hair is a mess, pushed back by frustrated hands. His tie hangs loose at his collar. His face is twisted into something raw and furious.

He looks like a man drowning on dry land, and no one has told him yet that he's allowed to ask for help.

He paces. His shoes click sharp against the hardwood — click, click, click — a jagged rhythm that matches the storm behind his eyes. He grabs another stack of papers, reads one line, lets out a strangled sound of pure rage, and throws them back down.

"Damn it," he mutters, voice rough and raw. He drags a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the strands.

I step inside. I close the door soft behind me. I don't make a sound. I watch him for one second, my face as still and calm as a frozen lake in the dead of winter.

"Mr. Benson." My voice comes out steady. Light. "I heard you shouting. Is everything alright?"

He spins around so fast he nearly trips over a stack of reports. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, filled with something raw and ugly. He laughs, a harsh, jagged sound that cuts straight through the quiet.

"Does it look like everything is alright, Victoria?" he barks, gesturing wildly at the sea of white paper covering his floor.

I don't step back. I don't flinch. I move deeper into the room instead, my steps slow and deliberate, my eyes drifting across the charts and numbers he's already thrown away.

"I am fine," he says, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous. "Leave."

I ignore that. I keep walking until I'm only a few feet from his desk. Close enough now to see the pulse hammering fast in his neck.

"Sir," I say, tilting my head slightly. "Is there something I can help with?"

He stares at me like I've lost my mind completely. His eyes drop to my uniform, then rise back to my face, like he's trying to work out whether I understand the question I just asked.

"Help?" His voice drips with bitterness. "What can a maid do to help with a multi-million dollar merger? This isn't a laundry list, Victoria. This is my life. Get out."

"I don't know, sir," I say, my voice unwavering. "But I can try."

He turns his back to me. He stares at the desk. His shoulders slump under some invisible weight. "The numbers don't add up. I've been at this for hours. It's a disaster. Nothing works."

I wait one beat, letting the silence settle heavy between us. "Can I take a look?"

He freezes. He turns his head slow, peering at me over one shoulder, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "You?"

"Yes, sir."

He lets out another laugh, quieter this time. Emptier. "You're a maid. You clean, you cook, you polish. What could you possibly know about business mergers?"

I stand tall. I clasp my hands in front of me. I lock my eyes with his, letting him see, just this once, the years of study I've hidden behind three years of quiet service.

"I have a degree in business administration, sir," I say, clear and steady.

The air in the room seems to stop moving completely. His face goes blank. The anger drains out of him fast, replaced by something sharp and stunned.

"What?" he whispers.

"I graduated three years ago," I say. "I spent months looking for work. I was rejected everywhere I applied. I needed to eat, so I took this instead. It was simply the path I had to take to survive."

His eyes search my face for a lie. He finds none, because on this one small piece, there isn't one.

He sighs, and something shifts in his whole body. The dismissive master disappearing, replaced by a man who looks genuinely, quietly stunned.

"I'm sorry," he says, quiet now. "That must have been hard."

I give a small shrug. "It was what it was. I survived. Now — may I see the papers?"

He hesitates one moment longer. Then he slides a thick stack toward me across the desk.

I step up. I don't look at him. I look at the numbers, and my mind starts working, the old sharpness rising back up through three years of rust like it never left at all. Cost projections. Interest rates. Rows and rows of data laid bare in front of me.

"These projections are wrong," I say, crisp.

"What?" He leans in.

I point at a column. "The cost of acquisition is far too high. You're overpaying by fifteen percent. The seller knows you're desperate, and they're inflating the value on purpose."

He snatches the paper from my hand. His eyes dart across the numbers, once, twice. Realization hits him like a wave, and his whole expression softens into something close to awe.

He looks up at me, and for the first time in three years, he isn't looking through me anymore. He's looking *at* me.

"How did you see that?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

"I have a good eye for numbers, sir," I say, a small, secret smile touching my mouth.

He laughs — a real, surprised sound that catches us both off guard. "You are full of surprises, Victoria."

"Thank you, sir."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know, sir," I answer, holding my ground the way I always do.

I step closer. I can smell his cologne now, sharp citrus over something warm and expensive underneath. I feel the heat coming off him.

He looks at me a long moment. Something shifts in his face — the anger gone now, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

"What do you want?" he asks.

I blink. "Sir?"

"Anything." He steps toward me, his voice low and certain. "Name it. I swear I'll grant it. You just saved me a fortune tonight. I don't forget things like that."

I hold his gaze. I let the silence stretch, just long enough.

Then I walk to him.

I reach out, my hand steady, and press my palm against his cheek. His skin is warm. His stubble is rough against my fingers. He doesn't move. He doesn't pull away. He only stares, frozen completely in place.

I lean in. I kiss him. Gentle, but with something simmering underneath it — a promise of everything I'm capable of, if he only knew what that meant.

He pulls back first, stunned, his hand rising halfway to his mouth. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You said you'd grant anything I asked. Didn't you?"

"I meant money, Victoria. A house. A car."

I step closer again, slow, unhurried, my voice dropping soft. "I know what you meant."

His breath catches. I can see it — the exact second his composure starts to slip.

I trail one finger down the front of his shirt, calm, deliberate. "But I've spent three years watching what money does in this house," I whisper. "It doesn't buy loyalty. It doesn't buy someone who actually sees you."

"Victoria—"

"I can be more useful to you than any check you could write." I lean in close, my lips near his ear. "Let me show you exactly how useful."

When I pull back, I don't break eye contact.

"Marry me," I say.

He blinks, looking at me like I've spoken in a language he doesn't know. "What?"

"Marry me," I repeat, calm and unshakable.

He stands there, stunned, the paper still clutched in his hand, his mouth slightly open. "You're a maid," he says, breathless.

"I know."

"You've been in my house for three years."

"I know."

"I don't even know you."

I smile, slow. "You're starting to."

I press my advantage. "I will be a good wife. I will help you with your business. I will give you an heir, if that's what you want. I will be everything you need."

He shakes his head, rubbing at his temples like they ache. "This is insane."

"Maybe," I say, soft, daring. "But you like insane."

He lets out a rough, choked laugh. "You're impossible."

"I know."

He looks at me a long time, searching for a reason to say no. He doesn't find one. The silence stretches, heavy and electric, until finally he draws in one sharp breath.

"Yes," he says.

A thrill shoots through my whole body. I force my face to stay perfectly still. "Yes?"

"Yes. I will marry you."

My heart swells, but I keep it locked down tight, out of sight. "Thank you," I say, simply.

"One week," he says, some of his old authority creeping back into his voice. "I will announce it in one week."

"One week," I repeat.

I turn. My skirt brushes soft against the papers still scattered on the floor. I walk toward the door, my posture perfect. At the threshold, I stop. I look back at him. He stands there among his own mess, watching me with wide, hungry eyes.

"You will not regret this," I say.

I walk out. I close the door behind me. I am no longer just a maid.

I am the woman who owns his future.

But he does not know one thing yet. He does not know that the woman he just proposed to is not simply Victoria, a maid with a forgotten business degree.

He does not know I am Oliver John's daughter.

And in seven days, when he stands in front of the whole world and calls me his bride, he will still have no idea that the woman beside him has spent three long years quietly planning the day his empire falls apart in her hands.