The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife

Friday afternoon arrived with a suffocating, humid heat that clung to the streets of Brooklyn.

A sleek, black Maybach rolled slowly down the cracked, pothole-ridden asphalt of the industrial district. It looked like a spaceship that had crash-landed in a junkyard. Pedestrians stopped on the sidewalks, turning their heads to stare at the obscenely expensive vehicle.

Aimee pushed open the heavy metal back door of the Berry Custom Workshop. She was wearing a faded pair of denim overalls and a grey t-shirt, both smeared with faint streaks of grease and sawdust. She looked around frantically, like a thief, praying none of her employees were taking a smoke break in the alley.

She spotted the Maybach, sprinted toward it, and yanked the heavy rear door open. She threw herself into the backseat and slammed the door shut, letting out a massive exhale.

She turned her head and immediately collided with Cameron's gaze.

Cameron was sitting casually against the leather seats. He was wearing a light grey Brunello Cucinelli cashmere polo that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked at her grease-smudged face and sighed, a sound of profound, aristocratic suffering.

He reached into the center console, pulled out a sanitized wet wipe, and handed it to her.

"Wipe your face," Cameron ordered softly. "You look like a coal miner."

Aimee's cheeks flushed. She snatched the wipe and scrubbed aggressively at her cheek. As she lowered her hand, her eyes caught sight of the massive pile of items stacked on the seat next to him.

There were three wooden boxes of vintage Bordeaux wine, a humidor of Cuban cigars, and several ornate boxes of high-end ginseng and health supplements.

Aimee's jaw dropped. She pointed a trembling finger at the pile. "Are... are those for my dad?"

"The Fox family does not arrive at a home empty-handed," Cameron stated, adjusting the cuffs of his polo. "It is basic etiquette."

The Maybach navigated out of the industrial zone and turned into Aimee's residential neighborhood. The streets here were incredibly narrow, lined with tightly packed, aging red brick rowhouses. The undercarriage of the Maybach scraped agonizingly against a raised manhole cover, producing a horrific screech of metal.

Cameron's jaw clenched so hard a muscle popped in his cheek.

The chauffeur expertly maneuvered the massive car and parked it in front of a slightly run-down house with a small, overgrown front patch of grass.

Aimee took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She grabbed the door handle. "Listen to me," she warned, looking Cameron dead in the eye. "Do not use your Wall Street CEO voice on him. My dad has a temper. He will actually punch you."

Cameron let out a cold scoff. He pushed his door open and stepped out onto the uneven sidewalk. His tall, imposing figure looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of peeling paint and rusty chain-link fences.

The chauffeur quickly unloaded the mountain of expensive gifts, stacking them neatly on the small concrete porch, then retreated to the safety of the car.

Aimee wiped her sweaty palms on her denim overalls. She reached out and pressed the doorbell.

The door was yanked open almost instantly.

Burt Berry stood in the doorway. He was a broad-chested man with greying hair, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a stained apron. In his right hand, he gripped a pair of long metal barbecue tongs like a weapon.

Burt's eyes completely bypassed Aimee. His gaze locked onto Cameron like a heat-seeking missile. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, scanning the billionaire from his perfectly styled hair down to his custom Italian loafers. The hostility radiating from the older man was a physical force.

The temperature on the porch seemed to drop ten degrees. Aimee swallowed hard. Panic seized her. Without thinking, she stepped closer to Cameron and wrapped her hands tightly around his bicep, clinging to him.

Cameron's body went rigid at the sudden physical contact. His instinct screamed at him to pull away. But he looked down at Aimee's white-knuckled grip on his arm, and then back at the murderous glare of her father.

Slowly, deliberately, Cameron relaxed his arm. He straightened his spine, pushing his chest out slightly, allowing her to lean her weight against him. He played the part of the protective husband flawlessly.

Burt noted the intimate gesture. He glanced down at the absurd pile of luxury gifts at their feet. He let out a loud, derisive snort through his nose.

"Get inside," Burt barked, stepping aside.

The interior of the house was cramped and smelled heavily of smoked paprika and roasting meat. The furniture was old and worn, but the hardwood floors were spotless. It was a space bursting with chaotic, lived-in warmth-the exact opposite of Cameron's sterile, silent penthouse.

Cameron looked around, feeling a strange, tight sensation in his chest.

"Sit anywhere," Burt ordered roughly, pointing the tongs at a faded floral sofa. He turned his back and marched toward the small kitchen.

Aimee pulled Cameron down onto the sofa. She leaned in close, her breath ghosting over his ear. "Please," she whispered frantically. "Just tolerate him. For the gifts."

Burt marched back into the living room carrying a massive platter piled high with glistening, sauce-slathered BBQ ribs. He slammed the platter down on the cheap coffee table. He pulled up a wooden dining chair, sat down directly across from them, and crossed his arms.

The interrogation began.

"So," Burt growled, his voice rumbling like a diesel engine. "What exactly do you do for a living, boy? And what gave you the right to steal my daughter without looking me in the eye first?"

Aimee opened her mouth to run interference, but Burt silenced her with a lethal glare.

Cameron looked at the older man. He saw the calloused hands, the tired lines around his eyes, and the fierce, undeniable love for his daughter burning in his gaze. Something inside Cameron shifted.

He didn't lean back and cross his legs like he did in boardrooms. Instead, Cameron leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer to Burt's level.

"I manage a family trust, sir," Cameron answered. His voice was stripped of its usual icy arrogance. It was deep, steady, and incredibly respectful. "And I apologize for the suddenness. But I assure you, I have every intention of taking care of Aimee."

Burt stared at him hard, searching for a lie. Finding none, his rigid posture relaxed a fraction. He pointed a thick finger at the platter of messy ribs.

"Eat," Burt commanded. "Don't turn your nose up at Brooklyn food."

Aimee panicked. Cameron was a man who ate Michelin-star meals with specialized silverware. He had severe germaphobia. She quickly reached for a rib, intending to hand it to him with a napkin.

But Cameron reached out first. With his bare hands, he picked up a large, sticky rib.

He looked at the older man, observing the raw, unpolished fierceness of a father trying to protect his only child. A strange, unfamiliar respect hit Cameron. He realized that dealing with a man like Burt Berry required more than just polite, corporate detachment. It required a surrender of ego. He needed to drop a bomb to earn this man's trust. He looked Burt dead in the eye, and with a voice so natural it sent a shockwave through Aimee's entire body, he said, "Thank you, Dad."