Marriage with the Dying Billionaire

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but strong enough to make Francis crumble with relief.

He smiled through the tears pooling in his eyes. "Thank you... Thank you. I don’t know how much time I have left, but this means everything."

It wasn’t love—not yet. It was mercy. A dying man begging for companionship in what he believed were his final days. And maybe, in some twisted way, I needed this too—to feel wanted, useful, and perhaps even capable of healing.

Weeks passed in quiet anticipation. Francis' team of private doctors put me through a series of tests. Good thing, Francis is smart enough to store a sperm before he got diagnosed by a deadly cancer. Despite my past miscarriages, the results were in my favor. I was still viable for surrogacy. The procedure was done with utmost secrecy and success. Life grew inside me—a life I hadn’t expected to carry, but one that would eventually change everything.

Soon after, Francis handed me a document. An NDA.

"You’ll need to change your appearance," he said carefully. "For your safety… and for mine. The business world wouldn’t take kindly to me marrying a convicted fugitive."

I stared at the paper for a long time, then signed it. I knew the old Dionne Carté had to die for me to live again.

Nine months passed in concealment. My body swelled with life. I stayed hidden in the countryside villa Francis owned, with only doctors and trusted staff around. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, we named him Frederick Troillan.

The moment I saw his eyes—so much like Francis'—I knew something in me had shifted. My body was tired, aching, but in the small, cooing bundle pressed against my chest, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: peace. He was perfect. He was untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Shortly after, I underwent the operation. A complete transformation. My reflection in the mirror no longer showed the woman who had wept in a jail cell or stood broken in a burning mansion.

I was Wayna Scott now. Every trace of Dionne had been erased—from the contours of my face down to the way I carried myself.

And then, I spent a few months in changing my behaviors and the way how I speak. I made sure that I mastered my new personality.

Francis, always true to his word, introduced me to the public as his fiancée a few months later. The media went wild. He became the face of resilience and mystery—the tycoon who’d found love again. Investors swarmed. His empire grew stronger.

Every magazine wanted a piece of our love story. We posed for press photos, smiled at galas, played the perfect couple. And while the world cheered, I remained haunted by the truth. I wasn’t just hiding from the law—I was hiding from myself.

One night, I was walking through the corridor to fetch a glass of wine when I heard him crying softly in his office. Without knocking, I stepped inside.

"Francis?"

He looked up, surprised, but didn’t try to hide his tears. I sat beside him, taking his hand.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. But I knew better.

Then came the words I never expected. “The doctors called. I’m now... cancer-free.”

DAMN!

Finally, our son can grow up with a Dad beside him.

Tears welled up in my own eyes. The weight he’d been carrying, the silent agony, the uncertainty—all of it vanished in that moment.

I felt something bloom inside me. Something I’d buried deep beneath layers of trauma and survival. I smiled and whispered, “I’m happy for you. I think… I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.”

We hugged each other tightly.

Francis didn’t hesitate. Days later, he began planning our wedding. He wanted it grand. Lavish. A celebration of survival, of rebirth.

Everything felt perfect—until it didn’t.

One afternoon, while Francis was in a heated discussion with the wedding organizer, his phone rang. He gestured for me to answer it.

“Hello?”

Silence. Then a raspy voice on the other end. "I know the truth. I know your fiancée's secret."

My blood turned to ice. I didn’t tell Francis. I couldn’t. Not yet.

NOT IN OUR UPCOMING SPECIAL DAY!

The voice haunted me for days. Who was it? What did they know? And most of all—what would they do with that information?

I threw myself into wedding preparations, pushing the call to the back of my mind. But doubt gnawed at me. The night before the ceremony, I finally confronted him.

“How did you know about me? That I was scheduled to be executed?”

He hesitated, then sighed. "I saw your case in the news. The murder of the farmers. Your face haunted every channel. I did my research, and I believed you were innocent. Once we’re married, I promise—I’ll help you find the real mastermind."

That promise lit a spark of hope in me. Maybe, finally, justice would be within reach. Maybe I wasn’t just running—I was heading toward something that could set me free.

The morning of the wedding arrived in a blur of silk, perfume, and nervous excitement. I wore a custom gown, my newly transformed face glowing in the soft morning light. The gown shimmered like moonlight, delicate lace brushing my ankles as I stepped into the limousine. I stared out the window, watching the city pass like a dream.

We arrived at the cathedral just past noon. Guests were already inside. The media waited outside, hungry for photos. Francis had spared no expense.

As the music began and I stepped into the aisle, I felt like I was walking toward redemption.

The church was vast—pillars climbing toward a golden dome, sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Every step I took echoed through the silence. Eyes turned to me. Whispers followed.

But just before the ceremony could begin, the church doors burst open.

Police in full gear swarmed the aisle. The music screeched to a halt. Gasps filled the air.

“Stop this,” the lead officer barked, stepping forward. “Ms. Dionne Carté, you are under arrest.”

The world tilted. My bouquet hit the marble floor.