The Billionaire's Dead Wife

The Warning

“Oh my god, I am never working another gala again!” Maya shouted as she shoved her apartment door shut with her hip. Her camera bag hit the floor before she even had her keys out of the lock. “I drop one glass in a room full of people who wipe their mouths with hundred-dollar napkins and suddenly I’m a public health hazard. Roman Wolfe and his mom looked at me like I grew a second head!”

She wrenched the pins from her hair and threw them onto the coffee table. They clattered and scattered across the wood. The humiliation was still hot under her skin. She could hear the glass shattering again, sharp and obscene against the polite murmur of the ballroom.

She could see Roman Wolfe going completely still, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that had made her stomach lurch. She remembered the way his mom said “impossible,” like she found her long lost twin daughter.

Roman had not been annoyed the way clients got when a server spilled wine. He had not been amused, either. His face had drained of color and his jaw had locked like he was holding back a word he refused to say.

Maya paced to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, then closed it without taking anything out. “He probably thinks management hired me out of the bargain bin,” she spat, her voice bouncing off the cabinets. “He was stunned that I could form a complete sentence after I broke his stupid glass.”

It hadn’t been just him. That was the part that crawled under her skin and stayed there.

Even before the crystal hit the marble, she had felt the shift in the environment. A woman in a red gown had gasped and leaned into her husband, whispering behind her hand while her eyes stayed locked on Maya. Two men near the bar had stopped talking and turned to stare, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. They had looked at her, then at each other, then back at her again.

Maya had forced herself to lift her camera. She had told the part of her brain that handled self-preservation that they were probably calculating the cost of the stemware.

She had assumed they were wondering why the Foundation had wasted budget on a photographer who made scenes instead of capturing them. Every photo she took for the rest of the night had felt like she was proving she belonged there.

And Roman Wolfe had watched her the entire time.

Not with the bored appraisal of a man who owned the room. His attention had been absolute, like he was trying to place her and the answer kept slipping out of reach.

“He stared like I was going to set the curtains on fire,” she growled, yanking her blazer off and tossing it over a chair. “Like he couldn’t believe they let me past the front door.”

But the explanation didn’t fit, and the mismatch made her angrier.

It wasn't judgement. Judgment should be like a turned shoulder and a dismissive glance. But Roman’s face had gone white. His hands had curled into fists at his sides. For a moment Maya had been certain he was going to cross the floor and say something to her, and the idea had sent panic skittering down her spine.

She dropped onto the couch and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. The apartment was too quiet.

“He was a billionaire. Billionaires probably stared at anyone who disrupted their events.” She whispered to herself.

The thought didn’t help though. She drifted to sleep in the same position with a heavy feeling that refused to go away, and that made her unable to put a finger on.

************************************************

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table at 7:12 the next morning. Maya jerked awake on the couch, her neck stiff and her mouth dry. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep out here. The caller ID read Wolfe Holdings.

She stared at it for three seconds, her heart kicking hard against her ribs, before she answered. “Maya Carter,” her voice rough from sleep and still edged with the anger from last night.

“Miss Carter,” a man replied. His tone was polished and carefully neutral. “This is Thomas Alden, Mr. Wolfe’s assistant. Mr. Wolfe would like to request a private meeting with you regarding your work at the gala. Are you available this evening?”

Maya sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. “My work was delivered to the Foundation last night,” she said. “If there’s an issue with the invoice, you can contact my agent.”

“There is no issue with the invoice,” Thomas answered smoothly. “Mr. Wolfe wishes to discuss a separate matter. He believes it would be beneficial for you to hear him out.”

A cold weight settled in her stomach. “I’m not interested,” she stated, and the defensiveness in her tone made her jaw clench. “Whatever issue Mr. Wolfe has, I want no involvement in it.”

“Miss Carter,” Thomas began, his voice shifting into something placating. “Mr. Wolfe can be very persuasive when—”

“No,” Maya interrupted. She stood up because the adrenaline under her skin demanded movement. “Tell him I’m not available. Not tonight. Not in the future. Thank you!”

She ended the call before he could respond. Her breathing was too fast and her palms were damp. She hated being cornered, and she hated men who thought “no” was the opening to a negotiation.

She forced herself through the day. She edited photos from a different job. She answered emails. She confirmed a shoot for next Tuesday. But her concentration kept sliding back to the gala. She kept seeing Roman’s face when she apologized for the glass. For a second he had looked like a man who had seen something he thought was buried.

By seven, she was done pretending she could focus on work. She picked up pad thai on the way home and climbed the three flights to her apartment, the bag crinkling in her grip. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

A business card lay on the floor just past the threshold.

She squinted her brows with a thought. She didn’t take clients who showed up uninvited. She bent down and picked it up, ready to tear it in half.

The card was thick, brown-colored, embossed with Roman Wolfe, CEO, Wolfe Holdings in stark black letters. No phone was mentioned on it and no email at all, which was weird.

Maya flipped it over to throw it away, and her breath caught.

Messy handwriting covered the back of it. Slanted, rushed, pressed hard enough to indent the paper. She was not aware of this writing, nor were there any introductions or salutations.

She read the words once. Then again….. Then a third time, because her brain refused to accept them.

She looked at her locked door right away to see a figure or something. It was empty till the end of the hallway. Whoever left it had come and gone without a sound.

Her pulse slammed against her ribs. She had told Roman’s assistant “no” quite clearly. She had made it clear that she wanted no involvement. And now someone knew where she lived.

Maya’s mouth went dry. She turned the card over in her hand, and the words blurred before sharpening into focus.

The message read, "Stay away from Roman Wolfe if you value your future.”