The Billionaire's Hired Wife

The smell of burned sugar and cheap coffee was sickening, but Sebastian Williams stayed completely focused. From his expensive, dark car, he watched the young woman clean a counter. Her name was Shuvee Alcantara. She moved with a messy, real kind of energy that should have bothered him, yet her face was the exact, haunting copy of the one he loved. She was not a perfect vessel; she was rough and ordinary, but her bone structure, the shape of her jaw—it was Danielle's. He ignored the sounds of her life: her laughter, her rough hands, her worn-out clothes. All of that could be fixed or thrown away. He didn’t see a person; he saw a project. A way to get what he wanted. A blank slate. He looked at the file next to him: her mother's sickness, her father's troubles, the massive debt. He had the full picture of her cage. He pushed the button to call his driver, his voice cold and sharp. "Drive closer. It's time to get the asset,” he ordered, making his driver nod at him. “She'll work," he added with a cold tone. The search was finished, and the capture was about to start. A soft tap came on the window. Arthur, Sebastian’s skinny private investigator, opened the door and sat in the leather seat. “Give me the report, Arthur. Just the facts, nothing extra,” Sebastian ordered, still looking at the coffee shop door. Shuvee was carrying the trash out, her small body struggling with the heavy black bag. Arthur coughed and opened his file. “The mother, Amelia Alcantara, is at St. Jude’s. Dialysis three times a week. The hospital bills are enormous, hitting seven figures in local money. She needs a pricey imported drug that the family can barely pay for each week. Shuvee is working two jobs just to cover the bare minimum cost.” Sebastian didn't show any feeling; his face remained a smooth mask of coldness. This was exactly what he needed—a desperate reason for her to say yes. “And the father, Ricardo?” Arthur paused, speaking a little quieter. “Ricardo Alcantara. He’s the real problem, Sir. He means well, but he’s weak. He got involved in the local drug selling, doing small deals on the side. Not because he’s an addict, but only to pay for her mother’s medicine. He thinks it’s the only way to keep his wife alive. He's always trying to hide from a small group he owes money to. He’s a danger that could explode any time, Mr. Williams.” Sebastian finally moved his eyes from the window to the folder on his lap. Shuvee’s picture was pinned to the first page, her smile bright and open, a sharp contrast to the sadness around her. “So, her life is a mess of being poor, huge doctor bills, and a father who might go to jail or worse. Excellent,” Sebastian said, the word ‘excellent’ sounding shockingly wrong. “The question isn't if she’ll take my offer, but when she’ll give up and agree to the fine print.” “She’s a decent person, Sir. Very honest and kind. A little easy to fool, perhaps. I’m not sure she deserves this…” Arthur stopped, sorry for sounding too caring. Sebastian gave him a look as sharp as a knife that stopped any more complaints. “You are paid to find facts, Arthur, not to judge how I do things or what she deserves. Her kindness and her despair are just numbers in my plan. Danielle was perfect. Shuvee is not. I need to know where she’s weak so I can apply the right amount of force,” he said, making Arthur secretly shake his head. Sebastian shut the folder quickly. “Get the contract ready. It must include rules for keeping secrets, not competing with me, and a rule forcing her to obey all my orders about how she looks, acts, and what she does. Make it impossible to break. I want her fully tied down. I won't have my Living Memory breaking the script.” Arthur nodded, the image of Shuvee fighting with the trash bag still fresh in his mind. He knew this was more like a fancy cage than a job offer. He just hadn't seen how truly cold Sebastian was until this moment. "It will be done, Mr. Williams," he answered. Arthur opened the door, stepping back out into the noise and the cheap coffee smell, leaving Sebastian alone in his quiet space, ready to start his plan. The car began to move slowly, stopping at the curb where Shuvee stood, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Sebastian adjusted his tie, getting ready for the biggest show of his life—a show to steal a woman’s entire identity. Shuvee Alcantara's life was an endless loop of being tired and holding onto hope. She worked the morning shift at the coffee shop, the afternoon shift cleaning offices, and spent her evenings by her mother’s bed, trying to make her comfortable in the clean hospital room. She was kind to a fault, a trait that often made her an easy mark for cruel or careless people. She looked for the good in everyone, even when they showed her the worst. She was hopelessly gullible, trusting strangers with her stories and her time. Her days at "Coffee’s Bear" , the small coffee shop, were often full of silly mistakes and shame that she just accepted with a fake smile. One cold Tuesday morning, a regular customer—an old, sharp-tongued woman named Mrs. Herrera who lived on her money—stomped to the counter, slamming down a full latte. “Look at this! Are you blind, girl? I said lots of foam, not a bubble bath!” Mrs. Herrera’s voice was loud and mean, making the few other customers look over. Shuvee’s face turned red because of embarrassment at the looks of the other customers. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I thought I put extra. Let me make it again for you for free,” she said, making Mrs. Herrera’s eyebrow furrowed. “Free? As if I can't afford this worthless thing! It’s about being right, child. You people here are so bad at your jobs. Your hands are like a field worker’s, and you have no brain to match. Honestly, you look like you just woke up on the street. How can you expect to serve a customer when you can barely keep your shirt straight?” Mrs. Herrera scoffed, tapping her perfect nails on the counter. The shame burned in Shuvee’s cheeks. She knew her clothes were old, faded from too many washes in the shared laundry machine. She fought back tears and the urge to talk back. She didn’t want to make a scene. She needed this job. “I truly apologize, Ma’am. I’ll make it again now,” she said, apologetic. Shuvee quickly poured out the latte and started fresh, her hands shaking a little because of nervousness. She heard a few customers laugh quietly, which made her more nervous. A moment later, she handed the new drink over. “Here you go, Ma’am. Lots of foam this time.” Mrs. Herrera took the cup, gave Shuvee a cold look of disgust, and walked away without saying thank you. Shuvee watched her leave, then forced a happy smile for the next person in line, wiping her wet hands on her apron. This was normal for her. Being a target for people who had nothing better to do was part of her low-paying life. Outside of work, her father, Ricardo, was her constant worry. He was a kind, simple man who had been pushed to desperation. Every time he showed up, it was with a heavy cloud of fear and guilt. One evening, Shuvee met him in a dimly lit, cheap eatery. Ricardo was nervous, always looking behind him. He pushed a crumpled ball of money across the table—only enough for one week of Amelia’s vital medicine. “Anak,” he whispered, his eyes full of pain, “I had to do it. They were waiting for me. I barely got away. If I don’t give them the rest of the money by Friday, they said they’d come for the little we still have. Please, don’t tell your mother.” Shuvee’s heart hurt for him. She knew he was trapped. She quickly hid the money, her own fear rising. “Pa, you must stop. I will find a way. I’ll ask for money early from my boss. I’ll take more cleaning jobs. Please, stop putting yourself in danger.” Ricardo shook his head, looking completely beaten. “You’re too good, Shuvee. Too kind. The world doesn’t work that way. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He kissed her forehead and rushed away, disappearing into the dark street, leaving Shuvee alone to worry. She was also an easy mark for local con artists. A week ago, she gave her entire week's salary—a tiny amount—to a neighbor who cried and said her child was sick and needed baby food. Shuvee believed her, gave the money, and never saw the neighbor or the money again. She spent the next two days eating only instant noodles, mad at herself for being so easily tricked, but unable to stop feeling that maybe, just maybe, the woman was telling the truth. This was the complicated, sad, and often messy life of Shuvee Alcantara—a young woman with a pure, warm heart trapped in the harsh reality of being poor. She was sinking under debt and worry, leaving her totally open to the cold eyes of the rich man who was about to walk into her life, not as someone to save her, but as a quiet, powerful hunter. The Mercedes-Benz S-Class car stopped silently at the curb outside "Coffee’s Bear." Sebastian Williams opened the door himself, a move meant to show he was taking charge. He wore a custom-made, dark suit that made him look less like a customer and more like a person of huge, unapproachable power. He walked into the coffee shop, and the quiet sounds of the small place seemed to disappear around him. Shuvee was wiping down a table, still upset from the earlier shame. When she looked up and saw him, she paused for a moment. He was the kind of rich man you only saw on TV or in magazines, giving off a feeling of wealth and a terrible, cold handsomeness. Sebastian walked right to the counter. Shuvee rushed to help him, trying to put on her customer-service smile. “Welcome, sir. What can I get for you?” Her voice was quiet but proper. He didn't look at the menu. He looked at her. His eyes—a surprising bright blue—looked over her face, ignoring her apron and tired clothes, only focusing on the familiar, special lines of her face. “I am not here for coffee, Miss Alcantara,” he said, his voice a deep, firm sound. Shuvee couldn’t help but to raise her brows in confusion. “I am here for you. My name is Sebastian Williams.” Shuvee frowned, confused at what she heard. “Me? Sir, I… I don’t understand.” Sebastian reached into his jacket and pulled out a simple, closed white envelope. He pushed it across the counter. “It holds an offer. A simple deal that will fix all your problems. Your mother’s medical bills, your father’s debts to the people he unfortunately got involved with, your apartment rent—everything. It will all be taken care of, starting right away.” Shuvee’s breath caught in her throat. The idea of her mother being fully cared for gave her a wave of dizzying relief. She looked at the envelope, then back at his blank face. “What… What do I have to do for that, sir? Is it a loan?” she asked. “No. It is a trade of services,” Sebastian answered, leaning in a little closer. “I need you to become my wife,” he said, making her surprised. Proxy for what?