The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

At 2:00 AM, a pipe burst in Ainsley's bathroom. Water flooded the floor, soaking the rug.

She stood there, shivering. She couldn't sleep in a swamp.

She needed a shower. She needed to wash the day off.

She crept into the hallway. The house was silent. She knew the master suite was at the other end. Carson usually worked late in his study downstairs.

She slipped into the master suite. It was huge, smelling of cedar and rain. She found the bathroom-a spa-like cavern of marble and glass.

She showered quickly, the hot water loosening the knots in her back.

When she turned the water off, she realized she had forgotten a towel.

She cursed softly. She wrapped her wet hair in a hand towel and stepped out, dripping onto the heated floor.

She went into the walk-in closet, hoping to find a robe.

It was a room of mirrors.

She caught her reflection. She looked pale, thin.

Then she turned.

On her back, running from her left shoulder blade down to her ribs, was a scar.

It was thick, jagged. A knife wound. Or maybe a piece of glass. It was old, but it was violent. She traced it, remembering the burning pain, the stench of the back-alley clinic. A reminder of a past life she was supposed to have forgotten. A past that explained why she always chose high-backed yoga tops, even in the summer heat.

The door handle clicked.

She froze.

Carson walked in. He was unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped.

"Who's there?"

The air in the closet grew thick. It was humid from Ainsley's shower, smelling of her soap and her skin.

He tilted his head. "Ainsley?"

She couldn't speak. She was naked, shivering, pressed against the mirror.

He took a step forward. "Why are you here?"

"My bathroom flooded," she whispered.

He stepped closer. He could hear her breathing. He could smell her.

He reached out a hand.

She should have moved. She didn't.

His hand found her wet hair. Then his fingers brushed her bare shoulder.

He flinched, but he didn't pull away. His hand slid down her back.

His fingertips hit the scar.

He stopped.

He traced the line of it, his touch light, reverent, confused.

"What is this?" he breathed.

"I don't know," she said.

"Kirstie said..." He frowned. "She said you were perfect. Soft."

His thumb rubbed the rough tissue of the scar. It was the most intimate thing she had ever felt.

"This is a war wound," he murmured.

He stepped closer. His chest was inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Really?"

"I'm Ainsley," she said. "I think."

He pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. He stepped back, his face a mask of conflict.

"Get out," he said. His voice was rough.

Ainsley grabbed a shirt from a shelf, held it against her, and ran.

Carson stood in the closet. The scent of her soap lingered, a clean scent that was at odds with the violence of the scar his fingers had just traced. The data didn't align.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number.

"It's me," he said. "Reopen the investigation on Ainsley. I want everything. Go back ten years. The profile we have is wrong. There's a variable we missed."

He hung up. He touched his fingertips together, remembering the texture of the scar.

The woman in his house wasn't a gold digger. She was a liability. And he hated liabilities.