Testing His Wife: The Billionaire's Secret

"Seventy-two dollars." Frieda stared at the red numbers on the final notice. She sat on the worn fabric sofa in the dim living room of their Riverside Heights apartment. The cheap floor lamp cast a yellow, sickly glow over the stack of unpaid bills spread across the coffee table. She rubbed her temples. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. Seventy-two dollars left in her checking account to survive the next twelve days. A sharp metallic click echoed from the front door. Frieda's head snapped up. Her heart skipped a beat. The heavy door was shoved open with brutal force. A gust of freezing night air rushed into the cramped hallway. Dewitt stood in the doorway. His massive frame filled the space. The harsh scent of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves, mixing with the cold air. He slammed the door shut behind him. The impact made the thin walls of the apartment vibrate. Frieda jumped to her feet. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. She took a hesitant step back. Dewitt reached up and yanked his dark tie loose. His movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. His heavy leather shoes hit the cheap laminate floor with loud, deliberate thuds as he walked toward the living room. The smell of liquor grew stronger. It burned Frieda's nose. "Dewitt?" she asked. She took a step forward, wanting to ask if he was okay. Then she saw his eyes. They were bloodshot. Dark. Completely devoid of the cold, calculated indifference he usually wore. He didn't turn toward the guest bedroom. He walked straight at her. His broad shoulders and towering height sucked all the oxygen out of the tiny room. Frieda took another step back. The back of her calves hit the hard edge of the coffee table. She had nowhere else to go. Dewitt lunged. His large hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. His grip was like a steel vise. Frieda gasped. Sharp pain shot up her arm. She tried to yank her hand back. "Let go!" Instead of letting go, Dewitt pulled her hard. Frieda stumbled forward. Her body crashed into his solid, burning chest. He felt like a brick wall. The heat radiating through his dress shirt scorched her skin. Dewitt lowered his head. His hot, ragged breath hit the sensitive skin of her neck. A violent shiver ripped down Frieda's spine. She brought both hands up and shoved hard against his chest. Her palms pressed flat against his hard muscles. He didn't move an inch. Dewitt's free hand slid around her waist. His fingers dug into her lower back. He jerked her flush against him. Every line of his hard body pressed into her soft one. A low, gravelly sound vibrated in his chest. He muttered something against her skin. The words were slurred, unintelligible, but the raw hunger in his tone made Frieda's heart race out of control. His lips brushed against her earlobe. A jolt of electricity shot straight to her toes. Frieda panicked. She twisted her head away, her breathing turning shallow and fast. She shoved him again. Dewitt lost his footing. His drunken balance failed him. They fell backward. Frieda hit the cushions of the fabric sofa with a soft thud. Dewitt crashed down right on top of her. His heavy body pinned her completely to the cushions. The living room light was blocked out by his broad shoulders. She was trapped in his shadow. Frieda stared up at him in pure terror. His face was inches from hers. The coldness in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by a dark, predatory heat that made her blood run cold. Dewitt grabbed both of her wrists with one hand. He pinned them flat against the cushion above her head. He stripped away her only defense in one smooth motion. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Frieda bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. Dewitt's Adam's apple bobbed. He slowly lowered his face toward hers. Frieda squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest heaved. Her muscles locked up, bracing for the violation she knew was coming. His lips were less than an inch from hers. She could feel the heat of his mouth. A violent buzzing sound erupted between them. The cell phone in Dewitt's suit pocket vibrated relentlessly against Frieda's chest. Dewitt froze. His body went completely rigid. He blinked. The heavy fog of alcohol in his eyes parted for a split second. Confusion washed over his sharp features. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a pained groan. The alcohol finally won. Dewitt's head dropped like a stone. His face buried into the crook of Frieda's shoulder. All the tension left his muscles as he passed out cold. Frieda held her breath. Her lungs burned. She waited five agonizing seconds. He didn't move. His breathing evened out into a deep, heavy rhythm. She shoved her hands against his shoulders and rolled his dead weight off her body. Frieda sat up quickly. She gasped for air. Her hands shook violently as she pulled her wrinkled shirt down. She stared at the man passed out on her sofa. Her heart was still beating out of her chest. But as she watched his chest rise and fall, the sheer terror in her veins slowly morphed into a heavy, suffocating exhaustion. He looked so normal when he slept. Not like a monster. Just a tired, drunk man. Frieda let out a long, shaky breath. She stood up on trembling legs and walked into her bedroom. She grabbed a thin fleece blanket from the closet. She walked back to the living room and draped the blanket over Dewitt's broad shoulders. Frieda stood by the coffee table. She looked down at her husband of three months. Her throat tightened. She had no idea how she was going to survive this marriage.