The Billionaire's Contracted Wife

Lily “You’re fired!” My breath hitched, my hands clenched into a fist as an attempt to hold back a sob. “You can’t fire me.” My voice was strained, disbelieving. The only job keeping me together was being ripped out of my hands. I needed an explanation. “Oh, but I just did,” Joe, my boss, said. He had a bitter scowl on his face, like he was on the verge of throwing something at me. “I don’t understand what I did. I’ve been a promising employee—” “A promising employee!” Joe gave me a mirthless chuckle. “Promising employees don’t steal hundreds of dollars every single day and pretend like nothing’s wrong.” I was taken aback at the accusation. I was not in the best position financially, but I had never – and would never – think of stealing Joe’s money. “What do you mean by that?” I asked, wanting a better explanation. As if he was waiting for me to ask, his hands reached for a book on his desk. He opened the large and shoved it in my direction, instructing me to go through it. My eyes scanned the pages of the book, realizing the problem – Joe’s business was going under, which was strange. Joe’s bar had an average of about thirty people on a slow day, which I considered a lot since his drinks were overpriced. He was someone who made hundreds or thousands in a day. I was earning $20 per hour and I worked 5 hours per day, which was enough to live off of and save for college later. There weren’t a lot of jobs I could find which didn’t require experience, and because I wasn’t experienced and younger than a preferred bartender, Joe cut my pay. This showed how good enough his pay was. I dropped the book back on the desk. Joe was now making just about $150 dollars per day recently, and even less on some days. I had no idea how that was possible – I was a bartender, and the amount of drinks I served in those five hours were definitely not adding up to how much he was recording. “It has to be some sort of mistake.” I tried not to dismissive, but I still found it ridiculous. “Of course you would say so. I noticed how strange it seemed. My money started to reduce each day, and then I decided to see for myself what exactly was going on. I started to collate how much money I was making per shift. The only shift with monetary inconsistencies turned out to be yours, Lily.” I shook my head, refusing to let his words settle. I was not a thief! There had to be something wrong somewhere. “Sir—” “I don’t want to hear it, Lily. I advise you to leave without the slightest bit of protest. You should be thankful I’m not calling the police on you. Or would that be better?” He made a threatening move, picking up his phone. I rushed out of his office and finally, out of the bar. The cold air of the evening hit me with as much cruelty as it had to offer. I collapsed into a bench on the sidewalk, crying silently. That was three months ago. Things had been falling apart ever since then. I was making very little from partnering with local brands as an influencer. My auditions for TV shows and movies amounted to rejection. I settled for being a server at a restaurant which didn’t earn as much as Joe’s bar, and I was being choked and drowned by the debts I had to pay off. After six exhausting hours of walking back and forth in the slow restaurant, I made my way to my apartment. The moment I opened my door and turned the lights on, my heart skipped a beat. There were two envelopes lying on the floor. The first was white and small and the second, brown and large. Someone must have slid them under my door. I sat on the floor and carefully opened the small, white one first. An eviction notice. I had a week to leave. I took a deep breath and bit my lower lip to fight the trembling. The landlady had more than enough reason to throw me out. She had let me stay past my due rent for half a year. It was safe to say she was right to be fed up. I grabbed the bigger envelope and opened it, taking out papers stapled together. The first words printed in a bold, elegant font caught my eye. MARRIAGE CONTRACT. As I skimmed through, I realized that my name was printed on the paper. I noticed an unfamiliar name that was as consistent as my name too: Blake Arnett. I wondered if I had somehow gotten a role in a movie or a series and if this contract was a prop, but I shook my head – I didn’t recall auditioning for something like this. I checked the large envelope for something, anything that could provide context. There was nothing. Just then, three uniform sounds echoed in my close-to-empty living room. I had just two single couches in the living room and some fake plants placed here and there to make the space cozy enough. I stood up and walked towards the door, opening it to reveal an unfamiliar pair of grey eyes staring at me. I instinctively took a step back. The man in front of me was gorgeous, to say the least. He towered over me at a height of about six-foot-three. He stood there in an all-black suit, just watching. He had no exact expression on his face, which made me curious. “Can I help you?” I broke the silence. As if pulled out of a trance, his eyes illuminated and his face was animated in a perfect smile. “Good evening. I apologize if I’m interrupting something. I was here earlier, but you weren’t home.” He reached forward with an open hand, waiting for me to shake it. “I’m Blake. Blake Arnett.” I almost let out a gasp. That was the same name stated in the contract. As I took his hand in mine for a warm handshake, I noticed the watch on his wrist – a Rolex Daytona. I had seen high-class men wear it, not just for them to know what time it was, but to show people that they were a part of the small percentage that had wealth for generations. I had seen enough to know that this one was not a fake. This man was either wealthy, or he stole it from someone who was. “Lily Johnson,” I said. His eyes scanned me from top to bottom, making me conscious. I was in a stained shirt and oversized jeans, standing in front of someone who was probably a member of five country clubs. Screw me. “Can I come in?” he asked. I could have said we could discuss whatever it was we had to discuss elsewhere, but I didn’t. I nodded. I was entranced. I stepped aside as he walked in, realizing that this was a recipe for disaster. I had a stranger in my unfurnished living room. I watched him look around with his hands in his pocket, careful not to touch anything. Not like there was much to touch, to begin with. “You can have your seat.” I bringed my hands as I gestured at one of the couches. He hesitated, but he sat anyway. My place might have been pathetic, but it was not dirty. I asked him if he would like to drink anything. He shook his head in response. I sat on the couch opposite him and picked up the contract. “This is yours.” “Correct.” He nodded. Just as I was about to ask him to explain, my phone pinged. It was a text from Bernard, my boyfriend. Benny: you home? I’ll be there in five. I’m bringing donuts ;) I gasped. There was an eviction notice strewn on the floor, a man in front of me who apparently wanted to get married to me, and a marriage contract in my hand. And my boyfriend was on his way.