THE BILLIONAIRE REGRETTED ME WHEN I BECAME HIS RIVAL

The worst part of my marriage wasn't that my husband didn't love me. It was that, after three years, I had finally learned to recognize the sound of him lying. "Elena doesn't need to know about the transfer until the merger is complete." Alexander's voice drifted through the half-open door of his study. I stopped walking. In my hands was a small black box containing the anniversary gift I'd spent three months saving for. Inside lay a platinum watch, elegant and understated, the kind of thing Alexander would never buy for himself because he considered sentiment a waste of money. I had planned to give it to him after dinner. Perhaps, foolishly, I had hoped tonight would be different. Then I heard his father's voice. "And the Hayes property?" "My mother's last remaining asset," I whispered before I could stop myself. "Already accounted for," Alexander replied. My fingers tightened around the box. The small technology company my mother had built from nothing had been sold after her death, leaving behind debts, legal disputes, and one piece of land that had somehow escaped the creditors. It was all I had left of her. Alexander had promised to protect it. Three years ago, he had held my hands, looked directly into my eyes, and told me that whatever happened, my family's legacy would remain mine. Now he was discussing it as though it were a line on a balance sheet. "You said the property couldn't be transferred without her signature," Richard Sterling replied. "It can't." "Then what exactly have you done?" A pause followed. "She signed the documents last month." My stomach dropped. I had signed dozens of documents last month. Loan renewals, tax declarations, company filings. Alexander had placed them in front of me while answering emails, telling me where to sign without giving me time to read every page. I'd trusted him. "She has no idea what she agreed to," Alexander continued. "By the time she finds out, the merger will be complete, the debts will be settled, and the property will belong to Sterling Enterprises." Richard chuckled softly. "And if your wife objects?" "She won't." Three words. Three years of marriage reduced to three words. I stepped backward, but my heel struck a decorative vase near the door. The sound shattered the silence. Inside the study, both men stopped talking. "Who's there?" Richard demanded. The door opened. Alexander stood before me in a charcoal suit, his tie loosened, his expression unreadable. For one terrible second, his eyes fell on the gift box in my hands. Then he looked at my face. "Elena." I wanted him to explain. I wanted him to tell me I had misunderstood, that the documents were harmless, that my mother's property was safe. Instead, he glanced toward the study. "How long have you been standing there?" "Long enough." Richard appeared behind him, adjusting his cuff links. "Family business. Nothing for you to worry about." I looked at him. "You're talking about my mother's property." "And your husband is handling it," he replied. "You should be grateful someone is cleaning up the mess your family left behind." Vivian Cole. His private strategist. The woman who seemed to know his schedule better than I did. Alexander turned away to answer the call. That was when I noticed the folder on his desk. The top page carried my signature. Beneath it was the name of the property my mother had spent twenty years building toward. But it wasn't the signature that made my blood run cold. It was the date. The document had been authorized two weeks before Alexander claimed he had first discussed the transfer with me. I picked up the page. At the bottom, beneath the transfer authorization, was a second signature. Richard Sterling's. And beside it, a handwritten note: Once the wife is removed from the equation, proceed with the final transfer. My hands began to shake. Removed from the equation. I read the words again, desperately searching for a harmless explanation. Behind me, Alexander ended his call. "Put that down." I turned slowly. "What does this mean?" His expression changed the instant he saw the page in my hand. Not confusion. Not surprise. Fear. For the first time in three years, my husband looked genuinely afraid of me. "Elena," he said quietly, "give me the document." I stepped back. "Why?" "Because you don't understand what you're looking at." "Then tell me." He reached for me, but I moved away. "Don't touch me." His hand stopped in midair. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Then he said the words that finally killed whatever remained of my trust. "You need to stop asking questions about things you don't understand." I looked down at the anniversary gift still resting in his other hand. I had spent three months choosing a present for a man who had already decided that my signature, my inheritance, and my future belonged to him. Something inside me went very still. "You're right," I said. His shoulders relaxed, just slightly. I placed the document back on the desk. "I don't understand your business." Then I walked out. I made it to our bedroom before my tears came. I locked the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the wedding ring on my finger. For three years, I had worn it as proof that someone had chosen me. Tonight, it felt like evidence of a crime. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. If you want to know why your mother really died, ask Alexander what happened on the night of March 14. I stopped breathing. My mother had died in a car accident on March 14, three years ago. I read the message again. Then a second message arrived. And Elena? Don't tell your husband you know. He wasn't the only Sterling in that car. I looked toward the locked bedroom door. For the first time that night, I wasn't thinking about divorce. I was thinking about murder.