My Billionaire Fiancé's Hidden Wife

Harper Morris POV: It was past midnight. Knox was dead asleep in the master bedroom, his breathing a steady, oblivious rhythm. I was locked inside my soundproof study. The sudden, sharp buzz of the front door intercom made my shoulders flinch. I tied my silk robe tight around my waist and walked to the entryway. I opened the door just a crack. A midnight courier handed me a thick, heavily sealed manila envelope. I signed for it in silence and locked the deadbolt. Back in the study, I pulled the heavy velvet curtains tightly shut, blocking out the Boston skyline. I took a brass letter opener and sliced through the tape. Corrigan's first-phase investigation file spilled onto the mahogany desk. Right on top was Deana Miller's profile. I picked up the surveillance photo. The woman staring back at the lens was hollowed out. Her skin was sallow, her hair limp, her eyes devoid of any light. I read the summary. Married Knox at twenty-two. Dropped out of her accounting degree to work double shifts as a waitress so Knox could finish his Master's. *A sharp pain pricked the back of my neck. I remembered sitting in my father's office, legally signing away my voting rights on the Morris family board, just so I could move to Boston and play the quiet, supportive academic's wife for Knox. I had hollowed myself out for him, just like she did.* I flipped to her financial records. She had no independent income. Knox had stashed her in a decaying rental property in Somerville. Her credit card statements were a depressing list of transactions from discount grocery stores and thrift shops. She was calculating pennies just to buy milk. I thought about the closet down the hall. The row of custom Tom Ford suits I had bought for Knox, each costing more than Deana's annual rent. A complex, heavy knot of empathy formed in my chest. Deana wasn't the wicked woman who stole my man. She was just the first host this parasite had drained. I turned the page. A loose photograph slipped out from between the documents and landed face-up on the desk. My breath caught in my throat. It was a boy. He looked about nine years old. He was wearing a faded, ill-fitting public school uniform. He was glaring fiercely at the camera, his jaw set, his eyes burning with a rebellious fire. My heart slammed against my ribs. The shape of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw—it was a carbon copy of Knox. I flipped the photo over. *Brandon Miller. Date of Birth: October 14th.* I stared at the date. October 14th. Exactly two months before Knox had cornered me in the university library, looked into my eyes, and told me he had never loved anyone before me. The dam holding back my sanity shattered. He had been actively pursuing me, begging for my trust fund money, while his wife was at home nursing his newborn son. My fingers clamped down on the photograph. My manicured nails pierced the glossy paper, tearing through the backing. I forced my eyes down to Corrigan's attached notes. *Brandon Miller. IQ tested at 145. Currently facing permanent expulsion from the Somerville school district due to chronic violent behavior.* I flipped to the medical records. Knox had booked five sessions with a high-end Newbury Street therapist last year. Under marital status, he had checked the box for *Single*. I spread all the documents out across the mahogany wood. A massive, terrifyingly precise web of vengeance began to weave itself together in my mind. Just leaking this to the press wasn't enough. Breaking off the engagement was a mercy he didn't deserve. I was going to take the wife he treated like garbage, and I was going to turn her into the bomb that leveled his reputation. I was going to take the bastard son he threw away, and I was going to forge him into the blade that pierced his empire. I booted up my encrypted laptop. I routed my connection through the Tor network and accessed a hidden Dark Web forum. I registered a brand new, untraceable identity. *Mr. Chen.* Using a basic exploit tool I bought on the forum, I breached the Somerville public school district's outdated disciplinary database. I pulled up Brandon's file. I read the principal's report. *Brandon initiated a physical altercation, breaking another student's nose. Trigger: The student repeatedly mocked Brandon for not having a father.* My eyes softened for a fraction of a second. Then, the ice returned, thicker and colder than before. I gathered the files, stacked them neatly, and locked them inside the biometric safe hidden behind my bookshelf. I walked over to the window and parted the velvet curtains just an inch. I looked down at the glittering lights of Boston. A storm was coming for this city. I picked up my phone and typed a secure message to my Cayman Islands lawyer. *Draft the incorporation papers for a new charitable foundation immediately.* "Since you want an empire so badly, I'll use your own flesh and blood to dig your grave."