The Billionaire's Invisible Secret Wife

Seraphina took the other elevator up to the penthouse. She went straight to her wing, into her bedroom, and let herself fall onto the king—sized bed. Julian's mocking voice echoed in her ears.

Why had she done that? Why had she invited that humiliation upon herself?

She buried her face in the silk pillows, as if she could suffocate the memory. But the image of his cruel, handsome smile was burned into her mind.

She got up and went into the en—suite bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She was still leaning over the sink, staring at her own pathetic reflection, when the bathroom door swung open behind her.

Julian stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. His suit jacket was gone, his tie loosened, and his eyes held a glint she couldn't quite read—something sharper than the cold disdain from the garage, something that almost looked like amusement. A teasing glint, as if he had caught her at something embarrassing and was waiting to see what she would do next.

Her breath snagged in her throat. He never came to her wing. He never sought her out after one of their exchanges. His presence here, now, felt like a violation and a dare all at once.

"Still recovering from your brave performance downstairs?" His voice was low, laced with mockery. "You looked ready to give a speech. I almost stayed to hear it."

She gripped the edge of the marble counter, her knuckles white. "I didn't think you cared enough to follow me."

"I don't care," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I find your persistence... curious. It borders on entertainment."

The word stung, but she refused to let him see it. "Glad I can amuse you."

He didn't move from the doorway, his tall frame blocking her only exit. The sheer proximity—him in her space, in her bathroom—made the air feel thin. She looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

"You had something else to say, didn't you? In the garage." His voice was quieter now, almost a murmur. "Say it."

She shook her head, a flush creeping up her neck. "It doesn't matter."

"It mattered enough for you to call my name twice." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was on the verge of solving. "You're full of those, aren't you? Little bursts of courage that crumble the moment I look at you."

She said nothing. He waited another long moment, then pushed himself off the doorframe. "Goodnight, Seraphina."

He was gone before she could gather her voice, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

She stood frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. The teasing glint in his eye, the way he had cornered her in her own space—it felt like a game she didn't know the rules to. Her gaze drifted to her reflection, and her thoughts slipped away, pulled backward in time to the moment it had all begun. Back to the reason she had agreed to this sham of a marriage in the first place.

It was two years ago. The first anniversary of her mother's death. Her father and stepmother were throwing a lavish birthday party for her stepsister, Wendy. They had forgotten the date entirely.

Feeling abandoned by the world, she had booked a flight to Interlaken, Switzerland. It had been her mother's favorite place.

She was standing near the edge of a cliff on Jungfrau, lost in a fog of grief. The altitude and her emotional turmoil made her dizzy. She stumbled, her foot slipping on a patch of loose rock.

A powerful arm shot out and yanked her back from the precipice. She crashed into a hard, solid chest.

She was so shaken, so overwhelmed with grief and terror, that she started screaming at her rescuer. "Why didn't you let me fall! Just let me die!"

The man holding her, a young Julian Montgomery, had looked down at her with cold, piercing blue eyes. "If you want to die, the Hudson River is cheaper. Don't ruin the view for everyone else."

His words were brutal. But in that moment, looking up at his chiseled face, her heart had given a violent, traitorous leap.

He made sure she was steady on her feet, then turned and walked away without another word, without giving his name.

From that day on, she couldn't get him out of her head. She replayed the moment over and over, regretting her hysterical outburst. Her best friend, Sloane Sinclair, had later teased her relentlessly, saying she had a classic case of Stockholm syndrome, falling for a man who insulted her.

Six months later, when her grandfather arranged a meeting with her prospective husband, she had walked into the restaurant and frozen. It was him. Julian Montgomery. The heir to the legendary New York dynasty.

It felt like fate.

She, who had been fiercely opposed to an arranged marriage, changed her mind in an instant. Her sudden compliance had shocked her family. Only she knew the truth. She wasn't doing it for the Beaumont family. She was doing it for the man who had saved her life on a Swiss mountain and then cut her to the quick with his words.

So they were engaged, and then they were married.

She had walked into this marriage with a heart full of hope, believing it was the start of her own epic love story.

Now, eighteen months later, the reality was a cold slap in the face. He was still the untouchable Julian Montgomery, and she was still a stranger he kept at arm's length. All her efforts, all her quiet devotion, had shattered against the wall of his indifference.

He had probably forgotten all about the crying girl in Switzerland. She was too afraid to ask, too terrified to hear him say he didn't remember.

She started to wonder if her entire marriage was built on a mistake. Was this persistence, this love, just a foolish delusion? She was tired of giving, of trying, of hoping.

But then she would remember the intense blue of his eyes, and all her resolve would crumble.

She slapped her cheeks lightly, trying to bring herself back to the present. Loving him was a curse. This luxurious bedroom felt less like a home and more like a beautiful prison. And there was no escape. His power and his coldness were walls she could not climb.

The memory faded, leaving only the cold, hard present. She was still the pathetic woman he had rejected in the garage, the woman he had just cornered and mocked in her own bathroom. The snow—capped mountains of Switzerland and the glittering skyline of New York swirled together in her mind—a romantic beginning, a desolate reality. Her feelings for him were a tangled mess of love, resentment, and a stubborn, unbreakable obsession.