Married To The Fake Mad Billionaire

Franklin paced the length of his mahogany study. Thick cigar smoke hung in the air, burning Eleanor's eyes. "She's a liability, Franklin," Eleanor snapped, rubbing her temples. "Elvis Barron is coming to dinner next week. If he sees that freak, he'll call off the engagement with Kaleigh." Franklin stopped pacing. He adjusted his tie. "The Livingston merger hasn't closed yet. We need every asset we have." "She's not an asset!" "Grossman called me this morning," Franklin said, his voice low. "He said her not showing up made her seem... untamed. He offered to double his investment in the media division if I give her to him." Upstairs in the attic, Francisqui pressed her ear against the floorboards. She couldn't hear their words, but she knew the rhythm of her father's anger. She stood up and checked the window. Nailed shut from the outside. A shadow moved under the crack of her door. A guard was posted outside. The lock clicked. A young maid pushed the door open, carrying a tray with a cold turkey sandwich. The maid wouldn't meet her eyes. She set the tray on the bed. As she pulled her hand back, she left a small folded piece of paper on the mattress. Francisqui waited until the door locked again. She opened the note. I heard the master in the study. He mentioned your name and Mr. Grossman. There is a very important dinner tomorrow night. Please be careful, miss. Francisqui's stomach twisted into a hard knot. Grossman was a known predator. If she stayed in this room, she was dead. She walked to the diary and pulled out the check. Five million dollars. If she cashed it, Franklin's bankers would flag it instantly. She needed to use it as a weapon. She grabbed a black eyeliner pencil from her vanity. She tore a sticky note from her desk and wrote in sharp, jagged letters: Medical fees for your psychotic break. I don't accept garbage. She stuck the note directly onto the center of the five-million-dollar check. She placed both inside a blank envelope. Francisqui opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. As an underground auditor, breaking into the Owen Estate's basic ADT security system took her exactly forty seconds. She disabled the backdoor alarm. She set a timer for five minutes. She knocked on the bedroom door. The maid opened it, looking terrified. Francisqui shoved the envelope into the maid's hands. Then, she pulled a diamond Cartier watch from her pocket-she had stolen it from Kaleigh's bathroom that morning. She pressed the watch into the maid's palm. Francisqui typed on her phone. Same-day courier. To Burleigh Livingston. Do it now, the backdoor alarm is off. The maid looked at the watch. Greed flashed in her eyes. She nodded and ran down the hall. Francisqui closed the door. She sat on the edge of her bed and opened a new browser tab. She typed in Burleigh Livingston. Articles flooded the screen. Tragic Car Crash. Heir Confined to Wheelchair. Mental Decline. Francisqui stared at a photo of Burleigh sitting in his chair. She remembered the way he swung that golf club. The sheer kinetic force. The muscle control in his core. A paralyzed man could not swing a club like that. She stared deeper into the screen, her mind calculating the odds. If she could get inside the Livingston empire, she would have unrestricted access to their private intelligence network. The exact network that held the buried police reports from the night her mother's car was run off the road. "You're faking," she mouthed to the empty room. Her pulse pounded in her ears. He was faking his madness. He was faking his paralysis. He was hiding something massive. She didn't need to run from Grossman. She needed to sell herself to the devil next door.