My husband faked his death, so I married another Billionaire

I bolted from the maternity ward, ignoring the sharp slap of my shoes against the linoleum. The medical report lay abandoned on the floor behind me. I pushed through the heavy glass doors and stumbled into the gray light of the parking garage.

"Running away so soon?"

I spun around. Vivian leaned against a concrete pillar near the payment kiosk. Her smug smile twisted my stomach into knots.

"Stay away from me," I warned, backing toward my car.

She stepped forward, proudly stroking her swollen stomach. "Eight months. He is a kicker, just like his father."

"My husband died a week ago."

"Your husband faked a fiery crash so he could finally be a real father." Vivian pulled a phone from her designer purse and shoved the screen in my face. "Look at it."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Open them, Doris!" she snapped.

I forced my gaze to the glowing screen. Sorensen kissing her cheek on a sunny beach. Sorensen holding a string of ultrasound printouts. Sorensen assembling a crib in a brightly lit nursery.

"He chose us," Vivian said, her tone dripping with mock pity. "He has been by my side for three years. You were just a corporate duty."

I did not argue. The betrayal burned away my tears, leaving only a white-hot fury. I got into my sedan, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. When Vivian climbed into a black SUV, I put my car in drive and followed her.

We wound through the hills, finally stopping at a gated villa in Oak Creek. She left the front door wide open.

I marched right inside.

Sorensen stood by the marble kitchen island, pouring scotch into a crystal glass.

"You left the gate code on default again, Viv—" He froze, spotting me in the foyer.

"Five years," I said. My voice did not shake. "You let me bury an empty box."

He set the glass down. No apology crossed his face. Just mild irritation. "You should not have followed her."

"Why, Sorensen? Why not just ask for a divorce?"

"And lose half my shares in the Wiles empire?" He scoffed, leaning against the counter. "My family would have crucified me for leaving a strategic alliance for a pregnant mistress. This was cleaner."

"Cleaner?" I took a step closer, my nails digging into my palms. "You destroyed my life. You let me plan your funeral!"

"I gave you the Wiles name. I gave you wealth." He crossed his arms, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth. "Vivian gives me a real family. I was suffocating in that sterile mansion with you."

I slapped him. Hard.

His jaw shifted. He did not even flinch. "Get it out of your system, Doris. Then go home."

"I am calling the police. I am telling the board everything."

"No, you will not." His tone dropped, turning sharp and commanding. "If the world finds out I am alive, the Wiles stock plummets. Your shares become worthless. Play the grieving widow, or you lose everything too."

I stared at the man I thought I knew. He was a complete stranger.

I turned on my heel and walked out.

The drive back to the estate passed in a blur of numb disbelief. When I unlocked my front door, Mr. Gable waited in my living room. Sorensen's personal attorney held a thick leather binder against his chest.

"Mrs. Wiles. I need to read the updated will."

"Updated?" I asked, collapsing onto the velvet sofa.

"Mr. Wiles made changes two weeks before the flight." Gable adjusted his glasses, avoiding my gaze. "The house remains yours. However, his entire private portfolio, all liquid assets, and his offshore accounts have been transferred."

"To whom?"

"An anonymous beneficiary."

Vivian. He had funded his new life with the money we built together.

Before I could respond, my phone vibrated on the coffee table. Then it buzzed again. And again.

I picked it up. Dozens of notifications flooded the screen.

*Wiles Heir Driven to Despair by Spendthrift Wife?*

*Sources Say Doris Wiles Drained Husband's Accounts Before Fatal Crash.*

"What is this?" I muttered, scrolling through the vicious headlines.

"The board is calling for an emergency vote to strip your voting rights," Gable said, packing up his briefcase with hurried movements. "I suggest you hire a crisis manager."

My phone chimed with a text message from my uncle. *Do not contact us. You have ruined the family name.*

Gable hurried out the front door. I walked to the bay window. News vans were already blocking my driveway. Reporters swarmed the iron gates, their camera flashes blinding in the fading daylight.

A rock smashed through the glass pane. Shards scattered across the Persian rug, narrowly missing my feet.

"Doris!"

Alexander shoved through my front door, violently brushing glass off his suit jacket. "Grab your coat. We are leaving right now."

"They think I killed him, Alex. They think I drove him to suicide."

"Do not read the articles." He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the back exit. "My car is in the alley. Move."

We escaped through the servant's corridor. Alexander drove recklessly, weaving through backstreets until we reached his downtown penthouse. He guided me to the plush sofa and handed me a mug of hot tea.

"Drink that. I need to make some calls and handle this PR nightmare." He walked out of the room, already dialing a number on his cell phone.

I sat alone in the quiet apartment. My phone battery flashed red. I needed a charger.

I stepped into the hallway and pushed open the heavy oak door to Alexander's study. The room smelled of old paper and bitter espresso. A single desk lamp illuminated his mahogany workspace.

I reached for a white charging cable draped across the desk.

My hand brushed against a thick manila folder. The bold, stamped letters on the cover caught my eye.

*CONFIDENTIAL: Aviation Crash Investigation - Flight 209.*

Flight 209. Sorensen's plane.

I flipped the cover open.

The first page was not a standard government report. It was a private flight manifest. Sorensen's name was crossed out in red ink. Next to it, a handwritten note in Alexander's familiar, messy scrawl: *Extraction successful. Target relocated.*

My blood turned to ice.

The mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor.

Alexander knew.