The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife
To save my father's failing workshop from ruthless loan sharks, I sold one year of my life.
I signed a fake marriage contract with Cameron Fox, an icy billionaire who needed a wife to pacify his sick grandmother. The rules were strict: it was purely a commercial transaction, with absolutely no physical contact and no emotional attachments.
Soon after, that cold hearted man seemed different to me. Wait, is he pursuing me?
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Chapter 3
The low, mechanical hum of the underground garage's ventilation fans vibrated through the floorboards of the Maybach.
Aimee shifted in her sleep. The fabric pressed against her cheek felt unusually scratchy, entirely different from her cheap cotton pillowcases at home. She let out a soft groan and slowly fluttered her eyes open.
As her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a expanse of dark grey, bespoke wool. Then, a sharp, clean scent invaded her senses-cedarwood and expensive bergamot.
Aimee's nervous system violently snapped awake. Panic flooded her veins like ice water. She jerked her head up so fast that her forehead slammed directly into the solid, sharp angle of Cameron's jaw.
A deep, guttural grunt of pain ripped from Cameron's throat. His thick eyebrows crashed together. He brought a hand up to massage his jaw, his icy blue eyes glaring down at the woman who was currently scrambling away from him like a terrified rabbit.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" Aimee gasped, pressing her back against the opposite car door.
But the apology died in her throat. Her eyes darted to the spot on his shoulder where her head had just been resting.
There, on the shoulder of his Savile Row custom suit jacket-a garment that easily cost more than her car-was a distinct, dark, wet patch.
She had drooled on him.
All the blood in Aimee's body rushed to her face, burning her cheeks with a heat so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her stomach plummeted to her shoes. This was the absolute pinnacle of social death. She wanted to claw a hole through the floor of the Maybach and bury herself in the concrete.
Cameron followed her horrified gaze. He looked down at his shoulder.
When he registered the wet stain, his face turned the color of a thundercloud. His severe germaphobia flared, making his skin crawl. The air pressure inside the cabin seemed to drop to absolute zero.
He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ticked. He fought the overwhelming urge to rip the jacket off and hurl it out the window.
"Get out," Cameron commanded. The words were clipped, sharp as broken glass.
Aimee didn't need to be told twice. She fumbled blindly for the door handle, shoved it open, and practically tumbled out onto the freezing concrete floor of the garage. She stood there barefoot, holding her cheap heels, her hands shaking with mortification.
Cameron stepped out of the car with terrifying grace. His face was a mask of pure fury. He shrugged off the ruined suit jacket, not even sparing it a second glance, and tossed it directly into a nearby industrial trash can.
He didn't wait for her. He turned and strode toward the private elevator, his long legs eating up the distance.
Aimee stared at the trash can, her heart aching at the sheer waste of money. She quickly slipped her blistered feet back into her heels and jogged to catch up with him, slipping into the bright, mirrored elevator car just as the doors began to close.
The ride up to the penthouse was agonizingly silent.
The doors slid open to reveal a massive, minimalist foyer. Martha, the head housekeeper, was standing at attention. She stepped forward and respectfully took Cameron's leather briefcase.
Martha's eyes flicked between Cameron, who was now standing in just his crisp white dress shirt and vest, and Aimee, who looked like she had just survived a natural disaster. Martha was far too professional to ask questions.
"Would either of you care for a late-night snack?" Martha asked smoothly.
Aimee hadn't eaten a single bite of food at the Long Island estate. Right on cue, her empty stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl that echoed off the marble walls of the foyer.
Cameron stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head and looked at her as if she were an alien species.
Aimee instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, her toes curling inside her shoes. She wanted to die.
"Prepare two sandwiches," Cameron ordered Martha, his voice flat. He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his study, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, Aimee was sitting on a high stool at the massive, cold marble island in the open-concept kitchen. She was ravenously devouring a gourmet ham and gruyere sandwich, practically swallowing the pieces whole.
The study door clicked open. Cameron walked out. He had changed into a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. He walked to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of iced water, and stood on the opposite side of the island.
He leaned against the counter, silently watching her chaotic eating habits.
Aimee felt the weight of his stare prickling her skin. She forced herself to slow her chewing, picking up a napkin to dab at her mouth, desperately trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity she had left.
Suddenly, the screen of her phone, which was resting on the marble counter, lit up. It buzzed aggressively. Three iMessage notifications popped up in rapid succession.
Aimee glanced at the screen. The sender was "Dad."
Her forced calm shattered. She dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto her plate.
She opened the messages. Burt's texts were furious. He was demanding to meet the "bastard" who had convinced his daughter to elope out of nowhere. He was questioning if she was being scammed or held hostage.
Aimee pressed her fingertips hard against her forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. She knew her father's stubborn, blue-collar pride. If she didn't bring Cameron to Brooklyn, Burt would absolutely take the subway to Manhattan and kick down the doors of the Fox Group.
She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her head and looked across the marble island at Cameron.
"Mr. Fox," Aimee started, her voice trembling with a desperate, pleading edge. "Are you... are you free this weekend? Could you please come back to Brooklyn with me?"
Cameron paused with the water glass halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. His icy eyes narrowed.
"Clause seven of our contract," Cameron stated, his voice a cold, unyielding wall. "I am obligated to perform for the Fox family. I am not obligated to entertain your relatives."
"My father's health is failing," Aimee pleaded, leaning forward over the counter, her hands clasped together. "He has a bad heart. He can't take the shock of thinking I'm in trouble. Please. Just one dinner. I'll deduct your hourly rate from the hundred thousand you gave me."
The mention of money flashed like a warning light in Cameron's eyes. His jaw tightened. He hated that she constantly reduced everything to a transaction, even though that was exactly what this was.
"Absolutely not," Cameron said coldly. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom corridor.
Aimee slumped against the high stool, the fight completely draining out of her.
Her phone buzzed one last time.
Burt: If I don't see this husband of yours by Saturday, I am calling the NYPD.
Aimee buried her face in her arms against the cold marble counter. Surrounded by tens of millions of dollars worth of luxury, she had never felt more suffocated and entirely alone.
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8.0
When gifted cellist Vivienne Aurel inherits her late father's catastrophic $4.2 million debt, she expects to lose everything. She doesn't expect the debt to be bought by Caspian Vane, the most feared private equity magnate in New York. Caspian doesn't want to ruin her; he wants her to work exclusively for him as the artistic director of his new cultural foundation for eighteen months. Forced into his world under a binding agreement, Vivienne prepares to fight against a cold, transactional cage. But as the intense, quiet proximity between them begins to blur the lines of their contract, she discovers a terrifying truth: the man who now owns her future has been watching her from the shadows long before she ever knew his name.
7.4
I single-handedly saved my family's corporate empire from a hostile takeover, securing our market share for the next decade.
But my grandfather didn't see me as a hero. He saw me as a flawed piece of inventory.
To calm the board and fix the reputation I supposedly ruined, he forced me into an arranged marriage, auctioning me off to the highest bidder.
Desperate, I turned to my childhood friend, Egnacio, the only person who ever promised to protect me.
But instead of saving me, he publicly humiliated me. He used my desperation as a networking opportunity, pitching my arranged marriage as a business deal to a ruthless private equity king named Dexter Mathews.
Later that night, I caught Egnacio holding my cruel cousin in his arms.
"What man wants to be with a woman who looks at you like she's planning a hostile takeover?"
Hearing him mock my pain shattered the last bit of hope I had.
I realized I was never family to them. I was just a sharp knife, used to cut down their enemies and then traded for cash before I got dull.
The heartbreak vanished, replaced by a cold, violent rage.
I didn't break, and I didn't run.
Instead, I got into the back of Dexter Mathews's car. He had watched my family tear me apart, but he didn't see a broken pawn. He saw a queen.
And together, we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
7.5
Five years of a fake marriage to a billionaire.
Christi thought she was a wealthy wife-until City Hall told her the truth.
No marriage license. No legal rights. Nothing but a lie.
Her husband cheated on her for four years.
His entire family mocked her, used her, and planned to trap her with a baby.
She was ready to ruin them all.
Then a secret changed everything:
Her late parents were DARPA elites. She is the sole heir to $50 billion.
There's only one catch-marry Cornelius Gregory, Wall Street's ruthless paralyzed tycoon.
She signs the contract in an instant.
Freeze their accounts. Destroy the Rivera family.
The game is over for them.
And the queen has just arrived.
7.7
I trusted the wrong people in my past life.
My supposed lover and my sweet sister conspired against me, locking me inside a burning warehouse to die.
But the man I had spent my life hating, my ruthless captor Damien Sterling, rushed straight into that inferno and burned alive just to try and save me.
In my past life, I was utterly blind. I believed Julian's forged documents and Scarlett's fake affection. I even tried to assassinate Damien with a silver dagger they provided, breaking the heart of the only man who truly loved me. I died choking on thick ash, realizing too late who the real monsters were.
Why was I so incredibly foolish? Why did I let their vicious manipulation turn me into a weapon against the one person who would sacrifice absolutely everything for me?
Opening my eyes again, the phantom smell of smoke vanished.
I was sitting in the bloody water of Damien's bathtub, right after my staged suicide attempt.
When my sister sneaked into my penthouse suite and handed me the dagger to kill him again, I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed her hand tightly and plunged the sharp blade directly into my own shoulder.
"Please don't kill me, Scarlett!"
This time, I will ruthlessly ruin them both, and I will never let Damien go.
7.1
For six years, I was the perfect, obedient wife to billionaire Hartwell Ware, enduring his coldness because I thought my love could eventually thaw his heart.
Then, my friend sent me a photo. Hartwell was at the airport, tenderly holding the waist of his first love, Eveline Craig.
He came home smelling of her synthetic rose perfume, accused me of stalking him, and coldly demanded a divorce.
His lawyer handed me a thick settlement agreement. It offered astronomical alimony and luxury properties, but it came with a humiliating ten-page non-disclosure agreement.
He wanted to buy my silence. He wanted to strip me of my rights to our son and gag me permanently, just so he could parade his new life with Eveline without any PR backlash.
Even now, he still thought I was a gold digger who had orchestrated a media scandal to trap him into marriage.
I stared at the man I had worshipped for two thousand days. My six years of desperate devotion had been nothing but a humiliating, one-sided delusion.
Hope was finally dead, and with it, my tears had completely dried up.
He expected me to cry, to beg, to negotiate for more millions.
Instead, I snatched the pen, crossed out the massive alimony, and signed my name on the dotted line.
"I am taking the basic child support, and not a single red cent more."
Leaving my five-carat diamond ring on the marble table, I walked out the door with nothing but my old suitcase.
8.1
My billionaire husband, Cooper, was thirty minutes late to my father's funeral.
When the heavy cathedral doors finally opened, he wasn't there to comfort me. He was tightly shielding his mistress, Celeste, under his umbrella, treating her like a fragile lily while I stood alone in my black mourning dress.
The whispers in the pews were deafening, but they were nothing compared to the truth I soon uncovered.
Cooper hadn't just humiliated me—he had secretly taken my father's life-saving spot in a medical clinical trial and given it to Celeste's family. My father died gasping for air because of him.
Days later, while I was shivering in the ER with a 103-degree fever, I saw Cooper sneaking into the VIP maternity ward. He was holding Celeste, his face glowing with the ecstatic joy of a man about to become a father.
For three years, I swallowed my pride to be his perfect, obedient wife, only to let his elite friends openly mock me to my face.
"You were just keeping the seat warm until the real queen came back."
He let my father die, hid all our marital assets in offshore trusts, and made me take birth control every single morning, claiming he wasn't ready for kids.
I didn't scream, and I didn't let him see me break.
Instead, I hired Manhattan's most ruthless divorce lawyer, smiled sweetly as I handed Cooper his coat at home, and began secretly gathering the evidence to burn his entire empire to the ground.