The Billionaire’s Fake Wife

CHAPTER 4: Extra Portions of Desire

Elena woke to sunlight streaming across the king-sized bed. For a disoriented second she reached for the familiar warmth of another body, but the other side was empty and cool. Reality settled back in quickly.

The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic far below. She walked to the windows in her oversized t-shirt and looked down at the city. From up here, the streets looked orderly, almost manageable.

Her phone showed twelve missed calls and dozens of messages. Most from Marcus. A few from his mother. One from an unknown number that simply read: We should talk like civilized people.

She made coffee using the sleek machine in the kitchen, then opened her laptop on the dining table. First things first. She created new email accounts and forwarded every important Hale Dynamics file she had access to. Then she changed all her passwords. Small, practical steps that made her feel slightly more in control.

At 9:15 AM, Attorney Ashford called.

“Good morning, Miss Voss. I hope the apartment is comfortable. I’ve scheduled a 10:30 meeting here at the firm with the estate’s financial advisor and the head of Langford Shipping’s interim management team. They’re eager to brief you.”

Elena hesitated for only a moment. “I’ll be there.”

She showered quickly, chose a simple navy blouse and brown trousers from her limited suitcase, and pinned her hair back neatly. The bruise around her stitches was turning purple, but makeup helped tone it down. Looking in the mirror, she practiced a calm, neutral expression. The woman staring back looked like someone who had been through hell—but was still standing.

A black Mercedes with tinted windows waited downstairs. The driver, a middle-aged man named Thomas, introduced himself politely and held the door without questions. The ride to the law firm took less than ten minutes.

The meeting room this time had more people. Ashford introduced her to Margaret Kline, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties who handled the family’s investments, and to Philip Grant, the current operations director at Langford Shipping.

They treated her with careful respect, explaining structures, key personnel, and immediate decisions that needed her input. Elena listened more than she spoke, asking clarifying questions when numbers flew too fast. By the end of the two-hour session she had approved the activation of several accounts, signed documents for temporary power of attorney on urgent matters, and agreed to a full audit of the shipping division.

As the meeting wrapped up, Margaret slid a black credit card across the table. “For immediate personal expenses. No limit. Also, we’ve arranged a personal shopper and stylist if you’d like to support building an appropriate wardrobe for upcoming board meetings.”

Elena took the card but felt no thrill. It was just a tool.

Her phone vibrated as she left the conference room. Marcus.

She answered this time.

“Where the hell are you, Elena?” His voice was tight with anger and something like fear. “You disappeared in the middle of the night with a suitcase. Liam keeps asking for you.”

She stepped into an empty hallway. “I’m safe. That’s all you need to know right now.”

“Safe? This is insane. Come home so we can figure this out. Sophia was just blowing off steam yesterday—she didn’t mean half of what she said, trust me, honey.”

Elena almost laughed. “I have recordings, Marcus. Of both of you. The forgery. The medical lies. Everything.”

Silence stretched on the line. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted to negotiation. “Okay. You’re upset. I get it. But think about what you’re throwing away. We built a life together. Hale Dynamics is finally taking off. Don’t destroy everything out of spite.”

“I’m not destroying anything,” she said quietly. “I’m taking back what’s mine. Stay away from me for now. If you try to contact me again today, I’ll have my lawyers send the first notice.”

She ended the call before he could respond and blocked his number. Her hands were shaking slightly, but she felt lighter.

Back at the apartment just after 2 PM, she ordered a simple lunch and sat down to make more plans. She needed a proper lawyer of her own—someone focused only on her interests. She also needed to decide what to do about Liam. The thought of the boy still stung deeply in her chest.

Her phone rang again. Unknown number. She almost let it go to voicemail, then answered.

“Elena Voss.” The deep, composed voice was instantly familiar. “Damian Blackthorne. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

She walked to the window. “No. I just got back from the law firm.”

“Good. Ashford mentioned the meeting went well.” There was a short pause. “I’m downtown for the rest of the afternoon. If you’re free this evening, I’d like to meet in person. Neutral ground. No pressure about alliances or anything else. Just coffee or a light dinner so you can get a sense of who you might be dealing with.”

Elena considered it. Part of her wanted to hide in the apartment for days. Another part—the part that had signed those inheritance papers—knew she couldn’t afford to be passive.

“What time?” she asked.

“Seven o’clock. There’s a quiet restaurant on the top floor of the Meridian Hotel. Private room if you prefer. I’ll have my assistant send the details.”

She agreed and ended the call. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of online research—reading everything she could find about the Blackthorne family, Langford Shipping’s recent performance, and basic corporate governance. She made notes like she used to do when helping Marcus prepare for investor pitches.

At 6:40 PM, she changed into a simple dark green dress she had packed by chance and took the elevator down. Thomas was waiting with the car again.

The Meridian Hotel was elegant without being flashy. Damian Blackthorne was already there when she arrived, standing near the entrance to the restaurant. He was taller than she expected—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders, dark hair neatly styled, and sharp, assessing eyes. He wore a tailored charcoal suit but no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone.

“Elena,” he said, extending his hand. His grip was firm but not crushing, and the brief contact sent an unexpected spark of warmth up her arm. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”

They were led to a private table by the window with a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Soft lighting, quiet jazz in the background. No other diners nearby.

As they sat, Elena became acutely aware of the way his gaze lingered on her—gentle yet intense—tracing the line of her neck and the way the green dress hugged her figure. She felt an answering flutter low in her belly.

When the waiter brought their drinks, Damian reached over before she could, picking up the bottle of chilled white wine and pouring it into her glass with steady, careful hands. He filled it only halfway, then gave her a small, warm smile. “Tell me if you’d like more.”

For the first few minutes they spoke carefully—about the weather, the apartment, the traffic. Surface topics. But beneath the words, something softer was already unfolding.

When dinner arrived—grilled seabass for her, steak for him—Elena looked at her plate and shook her head lightly. “This looks wonderful, but I don’t think I can eat much tonight. I’m still full from lunch and… everything else.”

Damian’s eyes softened with understanding. “No pressure at all,” he said gently.

But as they talked, he quietly began slicing small, tender pieces of his perfectly cooked steak and adding them to the edge of her plate whenever her attention was on their conversation. At first she didn’t notice. Then she did. Each time she looked down, another perfectly cut slice had appeared beside her fish, along with a roasted vegetable or two.

“Damian…” she started, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

“You don’t have to finish it,” he murmured, voice low and reassuring, his dark eyes warm. “Just try a little. You’ve had a brutal few days. You need your strength.”

There was such quiet care in the way he did it—never pushy, never drawing attention—that something tight in Elena’s chest loosened. For the first time in what felt like forever, someone was looking at her like she mattered beyond what she could give them. She found herself accepting the extra portions, eating slowly as they continued talking. Favorite books. Cities they loved. The quiet magic of late-night city views.

By the end of the meal, she had unknowingly finished most of what he had given her. Their fingers brushed repeatedly as they reached for the same things, neither of them pulling away. The air between them hummed with a warm, magnetic attraction—soft glances, lingering looks, and a growing softness in his usually sharp gaze whenever it rested on her.

Near the end of the meal, her phone lit up on the table. A message from an unknown number: This isn’t over. You owe me an explanation. Marcus.

Then another followed instantly: I guarantee you Liam will hate you for the rest of his life.

Elena’s stomach dropped, the fragile warmth of the evening shattering in an instant.