Testing His Wife: The Billionaire's Secret

The next morning, Frieda stood in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom.

She held a small tube of cheap concealer. She carefully dabbed the thick liquid over the dark purple bruise blooming on her forearm. She had hit her arm against the umbrella stand during the fight yesterday.

Her phone buzzed on the sink. A sharp ding echoed in the small room.

Frieda picked it up. It was an automated text from her bank.

Deposit received: $2,000.00.

Frieda blinked. She stared at the screen. That was double the usual amount Dewitt transferred for the monthly household expenses.

A second later, another text popped up. It was from Dewitt.

Got a bonus at work. Increasing the household budget.

Frieda stared at the short, blunt message. The corners of her mouth slowly curled up. A warm, fluttering sensation spread through her chest.

He was so cold on the outside, but he wasn't completely heartless. He was trying to take care of them.

She typed back a quick smiley face emoji. She grabbed her worn canvas tote bag and walked out the door.

Forty minutes later, after surviving the crushing heat of the subway and switching lines twice beneath the East River, Frieda walked into the lobby of Finch Tech. The small tech company sat on the dusty edge of Long Island City, Queens, tucked between a warehouse and a shuttered auto body shop. The neighborhood was gritty, full of low-slung industrial buildings and the distant rumble of the elevated 7 train.

Frieda walked onto the main floor. She headed straight for her desk. It was shoved into a dark corner, right next to the loud, constantly jamming copy machine.

She sat down. Before she could even press the power button on her computer, a heavy stack of paper slammed onto her desk.

Frieda jumped.

Preston Finch stood over her. He wore a tailored suit that didn't hide his bulging stomach.

"I need these sales reports cross-referenced and put into a PowerPoint by five o'clock," Preston ordered. His tone was dripping with condescension.

Frieda looked at the stack. It was easily two hundred pages.

"Preston, this is the Sales Director's job," Frieda said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I still have to write the hardware testing reports for the R&D department."

Preston's face darkened. He leaned down, placing both hands flat on her desk.

"Do it, or I dock your attendance bonus for the month," he threatened softly.

"Well, well. Complaining already?"

Frieda's stomach dropped. She looked up.

Marge Kowalski, Preston's mother and the mother-in-law of Frieda's sister, Cora, strolled over holding a steaming mug of coffee.

Marge looked Frieda up and down with absolute disgust. "If the Finch family didn't take pity on you, a trailer-park girl like you would be scrubbing toilets. Be grateful you have a chair."

Around the office, several coworkers paused their typing. They watched the scene with mocking smiles. No one said a word to defend her.

Frieda's chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe. The humiliation burned the back of her throat.

She swallowed the bile rising in her mouth. She needed this paycheck.

"Leave it," Frieda said coldly. She turned away from them and aggressively hit the power button on her computer.

At noon, Frieda sat on the concrete stairs in the emergency stairwell.

The air was freezing. She chewed on a dry, cold turkey sandwich.

She pulled out her phone and dialed her sister Cora's number. She just needed to hear a friendly voice.

Cora picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

Her sister's voice was exhausted. In the background, a baby was screaming at the top of its lungs.

"Hey," Frieda said softly. "Marge is on a rampage today. She dumped the whole sales-"

"Frieda, please," Cora interrupted. Her voice cracked with panic. "Just do whatever she says. Please. If you fight with Marge, Preston takes it out on me when he gets home."

Frieda froze. The half-chewed sandwich turned to ash in her mouth.

She heard the raw terror in her sister's voice.

"I... I know," Frieda whispered. Her throat felt like it was closing up. "I'm sorry. I'm fine. It's fine."

She hung up the phone.

Frieda leaned her head back against the freezing concrete wall. The weight of her toxic family pressed down on her chest, suffocating her. She felt completely, utterly alone.

She closed her eyes. Suddenly, the image of Dewitt's text message flashed in her mind.

Got a bonus.

Her phone buzzed again. A blocked number. She ignored it. It was probably Earl, her adoptive father, calling for another "loan" to cover his gambling debts. He always called when she was at her lowest. She couldn't deal with him today. Not with everything else.

A single tear slipped down her cheek. In this miserable, hostile world, her fake, cold husband was the only person who had given her a sliver of comfort today.

Frieda wiped her face aggressively. She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and stood up.

She pushed the heavy fire door open and walked back into the snake pit. Her eyes were hard as steel.