The Billionaire's Secret Paper Wife

The morning air outside New York City Hall bites at Chantal's exposed neck. She stands on the concrete steps, wearing a simple white button-down shirt and black slacks. She wraps her arms around her waist, shivering. A sleek black Maybach pulls up to the curb. The rear door opens, and Dell steps out. He is wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit that looks like armor. He does not look at her. He does not say good morning. He walks straight up the steps, expecting her to follow. Chantal falls into step behind him. Julian Croft is waiting inside. He guides them past the crowded waiting area, straight into a private room in the back. The city clerk looks at them with a practiced smile. "Do you have rings to exchange? Would you like to say vows?" "No," Dell says. The single word is hard and absolute. Julian steps forward, handing the clerk a thick, notarized folder. "I have arranged for the marriage records to be sealed at the highest level of confidentiality," Julian states smoothly. "The press will not find a trace of this." Chantal feels a hot flush of humiliation creep up her neck. She bites the inside of her cheek until it bleeds. It is a transaction, she reminds herself. It means nothing. She signs the marriage certificate. Dell signs it. The clerk hands the thin piece of paper across the desk. Dell takes it, doesn't even glance at it, and hands it to Julian. They walk out of the building. Dell stops at the bottom of the steps. "Three o'clock," he says, his eyes fixed on the street. "Do not be late." He gets into the Maybach. The car pulls away, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk. Chantal takes the subway back to her cramped apartment in Queens. She packs her entire life into one faded canvas duffel bag. At two o'clock, she drives her Honda Civic to the Upper East Side. She pulls up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Valdez property. The gates slowly swing open. She drives up the short, immaculate cobblestone path, her cheap car looking absurdly out of place against the imposing limestone facade of the Valdez townhouse. A man in a pristine suit is waiting by the front door. "Welcome, Mrs. Valdez," the man says, bowing slightly. "I am Reginald Poole, the estate manager. Allow me to take your bag." Reginald takes the cheap canvas bag, his expression perfectly neutral, but Chantal feels the sting of the class divide like a physical slap. She follows him inside. The house is a museum of cold marble, modern art, and silence. Reginald leads her up the grand staircase and down a long hallway. He opens a door to a guest bedroom. "This is your suite," Reginald says. He points down the hallway to a set of double doors at the far end. "Mr. Valdez's master suite is there." The physical distance between the rooms is massive. Chantal walks into her room. She unpacks her few cheap blouses and skirts, hanging them in the cavernous walk-in closet. She sits on the edge of the massive bed, looking down at her hands. Her mind flashes back to Dell's office, to the scorching heat of his palm and that sudden, terrifying memory of the dark room. A shiver races down her spine. She rubs her hands together, trying to erase the phantom sensation, forcing herself not to think about the paralyzing fear that had gripped her in that split second. At six o'clock, she hears the sound of a car engine shutting off outside. Her pulse jumps. She walks out of her room and heads toward the stairs. Dell is walking up. He has loosened his tie, and he looks exhausted. They meet at the top of the landing. The air between them instantly drops ten degrees. "Do not interfere with my life in this house," Dell says, his voice a low, dangerous warning. "We live separate lives." Chantal's spine stiffens. She lifts her chin. "That is exactly what the contract says," Chantal fires back. "I have no interest in your life, Mr. Valdez." Dell's jaw clenches at the formal title. He glares at her for one long second, then pushes past her. He walks down the hall and slams the door to the master suite. The sound echoes through the empty house. Chantal stands frozen on the landing. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out. It is a text message from Niamh. Just a heartbreak emoji and two words: Thank you. Chantal lets out a heavy sigh, her thumb hovering over the screen before she locks it. She barely has the energy to process her own ruined life, let alone comfort her best friend right now. Another notification pops up. It is an alert from her bank. A wire transfer of fifty million dollars has cleared. She stares at the zeroes on the screen. A heavy, exhausting relief washes over her, but the massive, silent house presses in on her from all sides.