Married To The Fake Mad Billionaire

The air in Burleigh Livingston's office was freezing. He kept the thermostat at sixty degrees to keep everyone uncomfortable.

Burleigh sat behind his massive desk, reviewing the short-sell documents for the Owen Group's media subsidiary.

Lewis walked into the office. He looked pale. He held a standard manila envelope.

"Boss," Lewis said, his voice tight. "The girl from last night. She sent something back."

Burleigh stopped tapping his pen. He looked up. No one returned five million dollars.

He took the envelope and ripped it open. The check fluttered onto his desk. It was perfectly intact.

A yellow sticky note drifted down next to it.

Burleigh picked up the note. He read the black eyeliner handwriting. Medical fees for your psychotic break. I don't accept garbage.

Burleigh stared at the words. A strange pressure built in his chest. A second later, a deep, rough laugh ripped from his throat.

Vance stepped forward, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. He thought Burleigh was having a real episode.

Burleigh laughed until his ribs ached. He rubbed his thumb over the eyeliner ink. "Interesting. Very interesting."

He looked at Vance. "Who is she?"

"Francisqui Noel," Vance said, reading from an iPad. "Franklin Owen's illegitimate daughter. She's a mute. They keep her hidden."

Burleigh's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head. "An Owen? Is Franklin sending a spy into my house?"

He looked at the check again. He shook his head. "No. Franklin is too stupid for a play like this. This is her."

Burleigh's mind raced, connecting dots that didn't exist. He assumed she was playing the ultimate game of hard-to-get. She returned the money because she wanted the whole bank. She wanted to be Mrs. Livingston.

"Greedy," Burleigh whispered. A dark thrill shot down his spine. "She knows I need a wife to unlock the trust. She's pitching herself."

Miles away, the door to the attic unlocked.

Franklin walked in, holding a blood-red silk dress. He threw it on the bed.

"Put it on," Franklin commanded. "Grossman is downstairs. If you embarrass me tonight, I will cut off the maintenance payments for your mother's grave."

Francisqui's breath hitched. Her fists clenched so hard her nails broke the skin of her palms. She looked at the dress. It was cut low, designed to make her look like a piece of meat.

She forced her muscles to relax. She gave Franklin a slow, obedient nod.

Franklin smiled. "Good. The cage taught you a lesson."

Back in the freezing office, Burleigh picked up his secure phone. He dialed Vance's number.

"Get me an invitation to the Owen dinner tonight," Burleigh said.

"Sir?" Vance asked. "You haven't left the estate for a social event in two years. It ruins the medical narrative."

Burleigh traced the edge of the sticky note. "A madman needs fresh air."

He folded the note and slid it into his breast pocket, right over his heart. He wasn't going to the dinner to socialize. He was going to claim his asset.