FROM SUBSTITUTE WIFE TO BILLIONAIRE’S OBSESSION

DAHLIA’S POV As I struggled to get down from the old minivan, I clutched the hem of my wedding dress, trying to avoid the puddles on the ground. The rain poured down relentlessly, and the minivan sped away, splashing a huge mud stain onto my dress. I let out a sigh and trudged slowly towards the dilapidated brick house before me. The creaky door swung open easily, revealing a sparse interior: a worn wooden bed, a table missing a leg, two simple chairs, a dark red lacquered carpet , and a small cubicle. I resigned myself to my fate and made my way to the bed, collapsing onto its edge. The bumpy ride had already drained me, and now my heavy, rain-soaked wedding dress felt like a lead weight, exhausting me further. As I stood there, I couldn't help but think that I wasn't surprised by the terrible environment around me. After all, I had been ordered by my stepmother to replace my stepsister in marrying a pauper. The only reason I agreed to this arrangement was that my stepmother promised to give me a sum of money after the wedding. With that money, I could pay for the treatment of my mother's illness and support my younger brother's education. Being able to take care of my family gave my life meaning. I anxiously waited until the sky turned dark, wondering when my husband would arrive. Finally, after a burst of lightning and thunder, I saw a drenched man push open the door and enter. The dilapidated wooden door let out an obscure creak as he stepped inside. Rain trickled down his furrowed brows, and I couldn't help but notice that my husband, who was supposed to be extremely poor, had a straight nose and a perfect, strong facial structure. It made me a little confused, as I hadn't expected him to be so handsome. As I sat by the bed in my wedding dress, the man barely glanced at me before disappearing into the small cubicle. I heard the sound of running water and couldn't help but think about the reality of my situation. When he emerged, drying his hair with a towel, it hit me that this was my wedding night, and I was actually going to spend it with this stranger. My heart raced as he approached the bed, his deep, magnetic voice sending shivers down my spine. "It's getting late. Go to sleep," he said, sitting down on the other side of the bed. I felt a surge of fear as the wooden bed creaked beneath him. I stood up, trying to sound brave, "I... I'm going to take a shower too." But my voice trembled, and I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I quickly retreated to the cubicle, only to realize it didn't have a door. Panic set in as I felt exposed and vulnerable. But then, the man outside seemed to sense my distress. "I'm going out to smoke," he said in a low voice. "Take your time to shower. There's no rush." His words offered a small comfort, but my heart still raced with anxiety. As the man left and closed the creaky door behind him, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me, and my eyes grew red. My life had never been easy, but I had never felt as destitute as I did in that moment. I gazed around the cramped cubicle, taking in the primitive shower and squatting pit, and felt a sense of hopelessness wash over me. I retreated to the corner, trying to hold back tears. With a heavy heart, I struggled to remove my wedding dress, the weight of my situation bearing down on me. After showering in the cold water, I realized there were no clothes for me to change into. I wrapped a towel around my shivering body and stepped out of the cubicle. I tried to distract myself by tidying up the room, laying out a blanket on the bed, and waiting for the man to return. But the silence was deafening, and I couldn't shake off the chill that ran down my spine. I breathed into my palms, trying to warm myself up, and couldn't help but tremble slightly. "Hu... Hu..." I whispered, trying to find some comfort in the sound of my own voice. Just as I was trying to warm myself up, the creaky door swung open, and I instinctively stood up, causing the towel around my chest to slip down. I was mortified as I frantically tried to cover myself with the blanket, but not before the man's eyes had already seen me. My face flushed with a deep blush as I tried to hide my exposed skin. The man's eyes seemed to glaze over, and he walked towards me, his presence enveloping me in a large shadow. I could even smell the scent of his soap as he approached. "Let's sleep," he said, his voice low and husky, as he turned off the light, plunging me into darkness. His hand caressed my shoulder, and his warm chest pressed against mine, making me feel trapped. As my bare skin touched the cold mattress, I instinctively leaned into his warmth. "Do you know who I am?" he whispered, his hand grasping the bed frame as he wrapped his other arm around me, holding me tightly. My mind went blank as I felt his hot breath on my face. I swallowed hard and managed to stammer out a timid reply. "Y-yes, you're my husband... Hector Jones." My voice barely above a whisper, I felt a mix of fear and uncertainty as I spoke his name, wondering what would happen next. XAYNE’S POV I asked her if she knew who I was reminding her that we were married and that this was our wedding night, I saw understanding in her eyes. She knew what I was getting at. I didn't expect her to agree so readily. A small smile crept onto my face, and my interest was piqued. I wasn't the useless country hoodlum, Hector Jones, and she wasn't the eldest daughter of the Smith family , Ophelia Smith. My real name is Xayne White. We were both substitutes, standing in for the real individuals. I thought about this for a moment, then turned to leave, but she whispered my name, "Hector..." and I paused. Looking down, I saw her big, sparkling eyes looking up at me shyly, and I found it charming. She tentatively reached up, her soft hands wrapping around my neck, and her trembling body leaned into me. With a gentle voice, she said, "You are my husband. You can do whatever you want to me." Her words sent a shiver through me, and I felt a surge of desire. As I gazed at Dahlia, I knew she felt a sense of duty and responsibility towards me as my wife. My throat constricted, and my heart raced as I took in her endearing and innocent appearance. Just as she looked up at me with a dazed expression, I quickly pulled my arm back and grasped her wrist, flipping myself away from her. I lay down, trying to put some distance between us. Dahlia's voice was barely above a whisper, "You..." but I avoided eye contact, saying lightly, "Forget it, we're both tired today. Let's go to sleep." But she persisted, her voice laced with embarrassment, "Hector, I'm not..." I knew she was trying to reassure me, fearing I'd misunderstand her intentions. She continued, her words sincere, "I don't mind...I just want to try my best to live a good life." I softened, feeling a pang of guilt for my earlier behavior. I reassured her in a low voice, "I don't want to make things difficult for you. I won't do anything to you before you're comfortable." With that, I fell silent, trying to process my emotions.