Four years ago, I was drowning. My mother’s medical bills were piling up, and the hospital was threatening to stop her treatments. I was desperate.
Cameron Smith was desperate, too. He didn't need love. He needed a respectable, invisible wife to appease his company's strict board of directors and his ailing grandfather.
We made a deal. I would be his shadow wife. In exchange, I received a monthly stipend to keep my mother alive, and a five million dollar severance when the contract ended.
In the beginning, it wasn't a nightmare. Cameron was actually gentle. He thanked me for the meals I cooked. He asked about my mother. I was young, naive, and I foolishly fell in love with my own husband.
Then, I made the mistake of acting like a real wife.
I saw a text message light up his phone. The name Camille flashed on the screen.
"Who is she?" I asked.
Cameron’s gentleness vanished instantly. His eyes turned to ice. He ruthlessly shut me down.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall to his locked home office. He threw open the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk.
Inside were dozens of envelopes.
"Look at them," he ordered.
He showed me every single letter Camille had ever sent him from Paris. He had kept them all. Perfectly preserved.
"I am only waiting for her return," he stated coldly, looking at me with pure disgust. "Don't ever question me again."
The next day, his lawyer handed me a revised contract. Cameron had added a humiliating clause: Absolute secrecy and no emotional demands. Any breach of these terms, and the five million dollar final payout is completely forfeited.
I signed it. I swallowed my pride, my tears, and my broken heart.
Since that day, I became the perfect, robotic wife. I never asked questions. I never showed emotion. I stayed in the shadows where I belonged.
But the shadows couldn't protect my mother.
I dragged my broken body back to the penthouse. I didn't call him. Instead, I went straight to the safe and pulled out the flawless, five-carat diamond necklace he forced me to wear for public appearances.
I called a black-market jeweler who asked no questions. I sold a two-million-dollar piece for exactly three hundred thousand in cash, wiring it to the hospital with barely ten minutes to spare.
The emergency bypass was successful, but her condition remained critical. The doctor warned me her brain tumor was swelling from the trauma of the cardiac arrest.
She desperately needed the VIP recovery suite I had secured weeks ago—the only room on the floor equipped with the specialized neurological life-support she required.
I rushed to the hospital, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ribs and the bandage hidden under my wet hair.
But when I arrived at the front desk, the head nurse wouldn't look at me.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith. The suite was reassigned."
"Reassigned?" My voice was dangerously low. "To who? My mother is on life support."
"To a Mrs. Laurent. She was admitted for mild exhaustion."
Camille's mother.
"Who authorized this?" I demanded, my hands shaking so hard I had to grip the counter.
"Mr. Smith's executive assistant."
Cameron. He gave my dying mother's life-support room to Camille's mother for a nap.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the hospital apart. I wanted to march into that suite and drag that woman out of the bed myself. But my phone buzzed.
A text from Cameron’s assistant: Car is waiting downstairs. You have thirty minutes to get ready for the foundation gala. Do not be late.
I swallowed the blood and bile in my throat. If I breached the contract now, if I caused a scene, he would cut off my mother's medical care entirely. I had to buy her time.
That evening, I plastered on a fake smile. I covered my bruises with heavy makeup and squeezed my fractured ribs into a tight, long-sleeved designer gown.
I took Cameron's arm at the high-society charity gala as if he hadn't left me to die in the street hours ago.
Another rule: Play the part when required.
We stood under the crystal chandeliers, the picture-perfect billionaire couple.
"Cameron, Vina," a senior board member approached, swirling his champagne. "Four years married. When are we going to see an heir? What does the future hold for you two?"
Cameron stiffened beside me.
I didn't miss a beat. I smiled my perfect, robotic smile. "Cameron is entirely focused on the company's expansion right now. I support him completely. Our future is exactly where it needs to be."
The board member laughed, satisfied. Cameron looked down at me, a strange, unreadable flicker in his eyes.
Two hours later, the gala ended.
The privacy divider rolled up in the back of the limo. The fake smiles dropped. The silence between us was suffocating.
Cameron loosened his tie, staring out the window into the city lights.
I looked straight ahead. "Our contract expires in exactly sixty days."
He froze.
"I have already contacted my lawyer," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "The divorce papers are being drafted. They will be on your desk by Monday."
Cameron slowly turned his head. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was inexplicably irritated, his eyes darkening with a sudden, volatile anger.
But his pride won. He let out a cold, mocking scoff.
"Eager to leave, Vina? Don't forget, you don't get a dime of the five million until the clock strikes midnight on the final day."
"I don't want your money," I said flatly. "I just want out."
His eyes narrowed, a storm brewing in them. He opened his mouth to speak, but the limo suddenly jerked to a halt.
We weren't at the penthouse.
Cameron's driver lowered the intercom. "Sir, we're here. Just as Ms. Camille requested."
I looked out the window. We were parked directly outside a luxury maternity clinic.
