The Billionaire’s Substitute Bride

Chapter 4

Chloe’s POV

I stared at her, certain I’d misheard.

"Excuse me?" The words scraped out of my throat, brittle and disbelieving.

The blonde-haired woman’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew tighter, more polished, like she was used to delivering shocking news over brunch and champagne. Her perfectly manicured fingers traced the rim of her glass lazily, as if we were discussing the weather and not… whatever the hell this was.

"You heard me, darling," she replied smoothly, her tone dripping with casual arrogance. "The wife of Henry Prescott."

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Henry Prescott.

The name echoed in my mind like a distant siren—faint, then deafening with every passing second. Remember when I said the name Prescott rang a bell? Well, now it made sense.

Henry Prescott. The billionaire CEO of Prescott Industries, a global conglomerate that owned everything from luxury hotels to tech empires. The kind of man whose face graced magazine covers, whose name held weight in boardrooms across continents. A man with the power to buy countries, let alone people.

This had to be some sick joke.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake," I managed, forcing a shaky laugh, though my heart was pounding like a war drum. I’m not marrying anyone. Especially not some—" I paused, searching for the right word, "—Prescott."

My mind scrambled to piece together what was happening….a runaway bride, a missing Camille Hart, a background check being run on me right this second, and now, some insane proposal about marrying a man I’d never met.

What the actual hell?

"Look," I said, my voice firmer this time, standing up from the chair as if that small act could give me back some control. "I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not interested in any of this. I have a life, a job—" well, technically hanging by a thread. "—and a family to take care of. So whatever weird arrangement you’ve got planned, find someone else."

I turned to leave.

A hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my wrist…not hard, but enough to make me freeze.

The auburn-haired woman’s voice followed, sharp and deliberate.

“Chloe Parker. Twenty-five years old. Lost both parents in a car accident two months ago. Currently responsible for your younger sister, Freya Parker—coma patient at St. Mercy’s Medical Center, ward 14, bed 6."

I froze.

Every muscle in my body stiffened as if her words had turned to ice and settled right under my skin. My heart hammered in my chest, drowning out the club's thumping bass.

She didn’t stop.

“Works at a café downtown, then at a Korean restaurant—which, considering today’s little incident, is no longer relevant. And now here you are, working at this club. Struggling. Barely holding on.”

My breath hitched. I tried to tug my wrist free, but her grip, though gentle, held firm.

“What the hell do you want from me?” I rasped, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound strong.

The blonde finally spoke, her tone soft but laced with something dangerous.

“We want to give you a life worth living.”

She released my wrist, and I stumbled back slightly, rubbing the spot where her fingers had been. They exchanged a glance, silent communication passing between them like some unspoken code.

Then the auburn-haired woman leaned forward, resting her manicured hands on the sticky bar table. “How much is your sister’s hospital bill?” she asked casually, as if she were discussing the weather.

My lips parted, but no words came out. I knew the number by heart, it haunted me every night.

Three hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars.

The cost of keeping Freya alive. The cost of hope. But I said nothing. She didn’t need my answer anyway.

“We’ll cover it,” she continued smoothly, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach twist. “Every single dime. Not just that—we’ll move her to Prescott Private Hospital, the best medical facility on the East Coast. State-of-the-art care, round-the-clock specialists.”

My heart stuttered.

“And,” the blonde added, her smile now razor-sharp, “we’ll deposit five million dollars into your personal account. No strings attached. Enough to start over. Enough to never worry about rent, food, or shitty bartending jobs ever again.”

The words hung in the air like a forbidden fruit—shiny, sweet, and undeniably tempting.

I let out a shaky laugh, disbelief cutting through my fear. “Is this a joke?”

The blonde tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “Does it sound like we’re joking?”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“Why me?” I snapped. “You could buy anyone you want—someone with money, with class, with…whatever the hell you people look for. Why drag me into this?”

The blonde-haired woman leaned back in her chair, studying me like I was a puzzle missing a few pieces.

“Because you’re exactly what we need.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She sighed, tapping her perfectly polished nails against the glass.

“Henry needs a wife. Public image, business politics—you wouldn’t understand. But the woman he was supposed to marry? Camille Hart? She ran. Disappeared three days before the wedding. A scandal like that could destroy more than just a reputation—it could crumble empires.”

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

“And here you are,” the blonde added softly, “looking exactly like her.”

I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

The blonde leaned in one final time, her voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. “Think about it, Chloe. Five million dollars. Your sister’s life. All you have to do is say ‘I do.”

No..

I might have made mistakes—plenty of them. Took jobs I hated, lied to keep the lights on, even swallowed my pride more times than I could count. But this? Marrying a stranger for money? That’s where I drew the line. That’s where I refused to lose myself.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I straightened my shoulders, forcing the words out even though they felt like shards of glass against my tongue. “I can’t do this,” I muttered, my voice low but steady. “No matter how desperate I am, this isn’t me. Please… let me go. I have people to attend to.”

The blonde-haired woman watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost disappointed, she reached into her sleek purse and pulled out a small, pristine business card.

“Very well then,” she said coolly, sliding the card across the sticky surface of the bar toward me. “I’m Serena. That’s my number. If you change your mind—and trust me, you will—call me. You have until morning, Chloe.”

I stared at the card, the crisp white surface practically glowing under the dim lights. My fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly.

I wanted to tear it apart. I wanted to forget this night ever happened.

But instead, I slipped it into my pocket.

*****

Later That Night

The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to the air, mingling with the faint, rhythmic beeping of heart monitors. I sat in the stiff plastic chair beside Freya’s bed, my hands wrapped tightly around a lukewarm cup of coffee I couldn’t bring myself to drink.

Freya lay motionless, her fragile body swallowed by hospital sheets, the rise and fall of her chest controlled by machines. Tubes snaked from her arms, connecting her to life-support systems that hummed softly, as if whispering reminders of the debt I owed just to keep her breathing.

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, my thumb lingering against her cool skin.

“This isn’t fair,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the mechanical beeps. “You deserve more than this… more than I can give you.”

But as the silence pressed in around me, doubt began to gnaw at the fragile walls I’d built inside.

Could this be the answer?

Marrying a stranger for money…a life-changing sum that could erase hospital bills, move Freya to the best medical facility, and give her a real chance. It felt wrong. Like I was selling a part of myself I could never get back. A betrayal of everything I believed in.

But then again, what’s the worst that could happen?

Love?

Happiness?

Freedom?

Those were luxuries people like me couldn’t afford to chase. Survival was all that mattered.

With a trembling hand, I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth edge of Serena’s business card. I pulled it out, staring at the bold black numbers printed neatly across the glossy surface.

My heart pounded as I fumbled for my phone.

I hesitated for just a second longer… then dialed the number.

The phone rang twice before Serena answered, her voice smooth and unbothered, as if she'd been expecting my call all along.

“Well, that was faster than I thought," she said, a hint of smugness hidden beneath her polished tone.

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the phone as I glanced at Freya’s still, fragile form.

"I just want to know the terms," I managed, my voice rough from hours of holding back everything I felt.

A soft laugh echoed through the receiver. "You don’t need to worry about the details. It’s simple, really. Henry is… unwell. He’s suffering from an illness. All you’ll have to do is be his wife until his health stabilizes. He can’t find out that his bride ran away, it’ll crush him."

Her words settled over me like a thin layer of dust… mild at first, but suffocating the longer it lingered.

"That’s it?" I whispered, more to myself than to her.

"That’s it."

"When do I start?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Serena’s voice came.

"Tonight."

My breath hitched.

"Tonight?"

My mind scrambled for a reason to say no, to stall or run, but Freya’s face anchored me to the ground. I had no choice. Not really.

"I’ll send a car to the hospital in two hours. Pack whatever you need. Say your goodbyes."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I sat there, staring at the dark screen, her words echoing like a drumbeat in my mind.

Say your goodbyes.

Slowly, I set the phone down and turned back to Freya. She looked so peaceful, untouched by the chaos unraveling inside me. I reached for her hand, cold beneath my fingers, and squeezed gently.

"I don’t know if this is the right choice," I whispered, my voice trembling, "but I’m doing it for you. I’m doing it because I can’t lose you."

A tear slipped down my cheek, but I didn’t bother wiping it away.

"I’ll be back. I promise."

But promises felt hollow when you had no idea what you were walking into.

Two hours. That’s all I had left to say goodbye.