From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress
I spent two years as the perfect, dutiful wife to Foster Baird. I was his unpaid PR consultant and his emotional punching bag, enduring his mother’s snide comments about my orphan background all for the sake of a "marriage" I thought was real.
But when I went to the City Clerk’s office to replace a damaged document, the clerk looked at me with genuine pity.
"There is no record of a marriage license for you and Foster Baird. Legally? You aren't married."
The betrayal went even deeper. I returned to our penthouse to find Foster’s mistress on our sofa, alongside a five-year-old boy who shared Foster’s exact features. Foster hadn't just cheated; he had a secret family that predated our entire relationship. He had even bribed a doctor to lie to me about being infertile just to keep me docile and focused on his business. When the mistress moved into my guest wing the next day, Foster demanded I act as their hostess and serve them dinner.
I watched them play happy family in the home I built, realizing I was never a wife—I was just "cheap labor" he intended to discard once his company stock stabilized. He thought I was a barren charity case with nowhere to go.
He was wrong. That same afternoon, I received a call from the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate. I wasn't a nobody; I was the long-lost biological daughter and sole heir to a five-billion-dollar fortune.
While Foster was busy planning my replacement, I was accessing the Kensington Trust. I didn't scream, and I didn't cry. I simply bought a fifty-million-dollar mansion and hired a team of forensic accountants to dismantle the Baird Group from the inside out. I crushed my old phone under my designer heel and looked at my new security detail.
"Let's get to work," I said.
Chapters
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Chapter 1
She wasn't Celena Roberts anymore. And she certainly wasn't Mrs. Baird. She wiped a smudge of dust from her skirt. It was time to meet Mr. Sterling.
Just hours earlier, it had all started with the feather duster.
The duster caught the edge of the silver frame on the high shelf. It wasn't a hard knock, just a clumsy brush of movement, but it was enough.
Gravity took over. The frame tipped forward, tumbling through the air in what felt like slow motion before it smashed against the marble floor of the master bedroom.
The sound was a gunshot in the silent penthouse.
Celena Roberts flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped the duster and fell to her knees, her hands hovering over the jagged shards of glass. It was their wedding photo. Foster looked dashing in his tuxedo, his smile confident and possessive. She looked young, grateful, and naive.
"Stupid," she whispered to herself, her fingers trembling. "So stupid."
A vase of white hydrangeas had been knocked over in the chaos. Water pooled rapidly across the marble, soaking into the backing of the broken frame.
Panic flared in her chest. Foster hated mess. He hated incompetence even more.
She carefully peeled the wet cardboard backing away to save the photo. Behind the picture, folded into a tight square, was their marriage license. They had never framed it properly, just tucked it there for safekeeping two years ago.
Now, it was soaking wet.
Celena pulled the document out. The water had done its work instantly. The cheap ink of the date and the official seal was bleeding into an illegible blue smear.
Her stomach dropped. Tax season was coming up. Foster's accountant had asked for a certified copy just yesterday. If she couldn't produce this, Foster would look at her with that disappointed sigh that made her feel small enough to fit in a matchbox.
She checked her watch. 2:00 PM. Foster wouldn't be back from the office until six.
She grabbed her purse, ignoring the glass on the floor for a moment. She could fix the mess later. Right now, she needed a replacement document.
The cab ride to the City Clerk's office in lower Manhattan took forty minutes of agonizing stop-and-go traffic. Celena picked at her cuticles until they bled. She rehearsed her apology to Foster in her head, over and over.
I'm sorry, I was cleaning. I'm sorry, I'm clumsy. I'll fix it.
The office was sterile, smelling of floor wax and stale coffee. She waited in line, shifting her weight from foot to foot. When her number was called, she rushed to the window.
"I need a certified copy of a marriage license," Celena said, sliding her ID across the counter. "Foster Baird and Celena Roberts."
The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and chipping nail polish, took the ID without looking up. She began typing.
Celena drummed her fingers on the countertop. Her phone buzzed in her purse-a reminder to pick up Foster's dry cleaning. She silenced it.
The typing stopped. The clerk frowned at the screen.
"Date?" the clerk asked.
"June 14th, two years ago," Celena said.
The typing resumed, louder this time. Then it stopped again.
"Are you sure about the date, honey?"
"Yes. It was a Saturday. We had the ceremony at the Baird estate."
The clerk turned the monitor slightly. "I have no record of a marriage license filed for a Foster Baird and Celena Roberts on that date. Or any date."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Celena gripped the edge of the counter. "That's impossible. We signed the papers. The officiant took them."
The clerk looked at her with a pity that felt like a slap. "It happens more than you think. Officiant forgets, or maybe... maybe it just never got mailed. But legally? According to the State of New York? You aren't married."
The floor tilted. Celena felt bile rise in her throat.
Not married.
For two years, she had been the dutiful wife. She had endured the cold shoulders from his mother, the snide comments about her background, the endless hours working as his uncompensated "consultant" to fix the Baird Group's PR disasters. She had signed pre-nups. She had signed NDAs.
But she hadn't signed the one thing that mattered.
"Thank you," Celena whispered. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
She walked out of the building, the city noise crashing over her. Horns, shouting, the rumble of the subway beneath the grate. She stood on the sidewalk, feeling completely untethered.
Her phone rang again. Not Foster. An unknown number.
She answered mechanically. "Hello?"
"Ms. Celena Roberts?" The voice was deep, gravelly, and serious.
"Yes."
"This is Walter Sterling. I am the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate."
Celena blinked, her brain struggling to process the name. Arthur Kensington. The titan of Wall Street. The man whose face was on every financial magazine cover until his death last week.
"I think you have the wrong number," she said.
"I do not," Sterling said. "We have been looking for you since the reading of the will. We were able to retrieve a DNA sample from your sealed medical file at St. Jude's. It's a match, Ms. Roberts. You are his biological daughter."
Celena laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "Is this a joke? I'm an orphan from St. Jude's."
"Arthur Kensington was your father. And you are the sole heir to the Kensington trust and assets. We need to meet. immediately."
The irony tasted like copper in her mouth. Five minutes ago, she was a fake wife with nothing. Now, a stranger on the phone was telling her she owned half of Manhattan.
"I... I can't right now," she stammered. "I have to go home."
"Ms. Kensington, please-"
She hung up.
The ride back to the penthouse was a blur. She didn't cry. She couldn't. She felt hollowed out, scraped clean by shock.
She unlocked the front door of the penthouse quietly. It was 4:30 PM. Foster shouldn't be home yet.
But the smell hit her first.
Heavy, floral perfume. Not hers.
Then, the sound. Giggling. Low, throaty laughter coming from the living room.
Celena moved silently across the foyer. She stopped at the edge of the hallway.
Foster was on the beige sofa. His jacket was off, his tie loosened. Straddling his lap was a woman with blonde waves and a backless dress. Ava Douglas. His "art consultant."
Foster's hand was tangled in Ava's hair. He kissed her neck, murmuring something that made Ava shiver.
"When are you going to tell her?" Ava asked, pulling back slightly. Her voice was light, teasing.
Foster groaned, resting his forehead against hers. "Soon. I just need her to finish the quarterly report. She's useful, Ava. Cheap labor."
"She's a bore," Ava pouted. "And she can't even give you an heir."
"I know," Foster said, his voice dripping with contempt. "A barren charity case. As soon as the stock stabilizes, I'll cut her loose. I promise."
Celena stood in the shadows. The broken glass from the picture frame was still in her pocket, sharp edges pressing against her thigh through the fabric.
She didn't scream. She didn't storm in.
A coldness spread from her chest to her fingertips, freezing the tears before they could fall. She watched them for another ten seconds, memorizing the angle of his head, the cruelty of his smile.
Then, she turned around and walked back to the elevator. She pressed the button.
---
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A Whitmere Family Romance
Ten years ago, Sloane Hart ran from the only man she ever loved.
Not because she stopped loving him-
but because loving Rhett Whitmere meant risking everything.
Now she's back in Whitmere County, standing inside the luxury hotel he built from heartbreak, legacy, and a love he never let go of. Rhett is no longer the boy she left behind. He's a powerful CEO bound by family expectation, haunted by the past, and still hopelessly in love with the woman who shattered him.
Sloane only planned to stay long enough to complete a high-profile spa expansion.
She never planned to fall for him again.
But in a town that remembers everything, whispers turn into scandals, and old wounds reopen fast. When a dangerous betrayal threatens Rhett's empire and puts Sloane at the center of a storm, they're forced to face the truth they've both been avoiding:
Some loves don't fade.
They wait.
And this time, Rhett Whitmere isn't willing to lose her again.
Forever Yours, Almost is a slow-burn, second-chance romance filled with family legacy, small-town secrets, emotional tension, and a love worth fighting for
9.4
**Fortune between Us** is a fast-paced, dramatic tale of ambition, love, and power in the glamorous world of billionaires. Isabella Carter, a brilliant and determined strategist, navigates high-stakes corporate intrigue, rivalries, and sabotage while forging a complex, slowly unfolding romance with the enigmatic Alexander Blackwood. As secrets, betrayals, and crises threaten to unravel everything, Isabella must rely on intelligence, courage, and intuition to survive-and thrive-in a world where wealth, influence, and desire collide.
8.8
I was the despised adopted daughter of the Sanders family, hiding behind heavy gothic makeup and enduring their daily disgust.
The day my adoptive father died in a severe car crash, my adoptive mother and stepsister didn't even bother to call me.
Instead, while his body was still warm, my mother filed a multi-million dollar life insurance claim.
"I am not feeding a useless freak for another day. Pack your trash and get out."
She kicked me out into the freezing rain, but that wasn't the worst of it.
My stepsister Cornelia stole my greatest secret. Five years ago, I saved the life of Fidel Vaughan, a ruthless billionaire heir, from a burning estate.
Cornelia claimed my identity, accepted a million-dollar reward, and secured a marriage proposal from him, burning my only proof to ashes.
They thought I was just a helpless, pathetic high schooler they could discard and replace.
But when I hacked the police files, I discovered my father's crash wasn't an accident. It was a targeted hit, and the Vaughan Group had hijacked the traffic cameras to cover it up.
I washed off the ugly black makeup, shedding the disguise of a pathetic outcast.
I am Spectre, the world's most elusive hacker and underground doctor.
I intercepted the billionaire heir's heavily armed convoy in the dead of night. They thought they could steal my life and murder my father, but now, I hold the needle that controls Fidel Vaughan's sanity, and I will make them all pay.
7.5
For three years, I was trapped in a paper marriage to a billionaire I had never met, until my father forced me to finally visit his hotel suite.
But when I walked in, I found my husband, Bryton Lott, heavily drugged by my own father. Stripped of all reason, Bryton violently pinned me down and took my innocence, making me a pawn in my father's sick scheme to force a pregnancy and save his bankrupt company.
After escaping his feral grip, I overheard Bryton call my father. He called me a useless, invisible wife, vowing to hand me divorce papers the second he saw my face. The nightmare didn't end there. When I brought a priceless antique jade bracelet to my mother's birthday, she slapped me across the face in front of the entire elite crowd. My stepsister publicly accused me of selling my body. Hiding in the shadows, I even heard my mother admit she wished I was dead, only keeping me around to exploit my marriage.
I had played the obedient, impoverished daughter for years, enduring their endless abuse just to protect my grandmother's legacy. Why did my own flesh and blood treat me like a sacrificial lamb to be sold and destroyed?
The last thread holding my heart together completely snapped. I left the multi-million dollar bracelet on the cold stone sill and walked out into the freezing night. Snapping my everyday SIM card in half, I pulled out an encrypted satellite phone and activated my true identity as the underground world's top operative, "King."
"Run a full hostile intelligence sweep on Apocalypse Corp."
7.5
I had been a "decoration piece" for Kenton Parker for three years, a contract wife bought to pay off my father's gambling debts. I lived in a cold penthouse, making his coffee and answering his phones, while he treated me with the clinical indifference of a stranger.
On our third anniversary, I waited alone at the city's most exclusive restaurant, only to see a news alert flash on my phone. Kenton wasn't coming. He was caught on camera at a hospital, looking at his "friend," ballerina Blanca Donovan, with a raw, frantic worry he had never once shown me, not even when I fell down a flight of stairs.
I finally snapped and filed for divorce, citing his "irreversible erectile dysfunction" just to destroy his massive ego. I thought I was free, but Kenton retaliated with a cruelty that left me breathless. He froze every bank account I owned and had his secretary smash the last photo I had of my mother. He reminded me of the five-million-dollar penalty in my contract-money I didn't have.
"You don't get to leave until I say so," he roared, dragging me into his office. He used my father's life as a leash, forcing me to play the part of a doting wife at his family's Hamptons estate to please his sick mother. He wanted to starve me out until I crawled back to his side.
I couldn't understand how a man could be so heartless. He didn't want my heart, yet he refused to let me go, treating my life like a line item in a corporate merger. He wanted to keep me as his prisoner while he spent his nights with another woman.
But Kenton made one fatal mistake. He thought I was just a broke, submissive secretary with nowhere to turn. He didn't know that I was "Vee," a world-renowned art restorer with a secret legacy and a six-figure commission waiting for me.
As we shared a bed in the Hamptons and he pulled me against his chest, whispering that I was "his," I didn't feel comfort. I felt the cold, hard spark of a woman who was finally ready to burn his contract to the ground.
7.4
Ardella caught her fiancé Braden cheating with an actress in a downtown VIP room.
It was supposed to be a simple business marriage to save her family's bankrupt company.
But instead of supporting her, her uncle and aunt demanded she get on her knees and apologize to the cheating fiancé.
They didn't care about her dignity; they only cared about the merger capital.
Her cousin publicly mocked her, and her uncle threatened to permanently hide the police file revealing who murdered her father if she ruined the deal.
To make matters worse, Ethelbert Stone, the terrifying billionaire who raised her—and the man she was desperately trying to escape—publicly claimed he didn't know her.
Yet, moments later, he trapped her in his car, his eyes filled with a sick, possessive rage, reminding her that every inch of her belonged to him.
She was completely cornered by a cheating fiancé, a parasitic family, and an obsessed former guardian.
They had drained her father's trust fund dry and now wanted to sell her off to cover their debts.
They really thought she was just a helpless pawn they could manipulate and discard at will.
But they were dead wrong.
Ardella calmly wiped her hands after throwing scalding tea at her aunt's feet, staring down at her greedy family.
"The headline tomorrow will read: Price Group Bankrupt, Fails to Sell Niece to Cover Debts."
She backed up the video of her fiancé's betrayal to ten different servers and sent a text to her private investigator.
Tonight, at the elite society dinner, she was going to blow the scandal wide open and drag them all down with her.