Marriage with the Dying Billionaire

The wedding that was supposed to seal my new life ended in chaos.

Gasps rippled through the church like a storm when the police marched in, guns holstered, voices raised. All eyes turned to me—not as a bride, but as a criminal. I stood frozen in place, still clutching my bouquet, heart slamming against my ribs. My veil trembled like the lies it was hiding.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

“That’s her? The murderer? ”

“Isn’t that Dionne Carté?”

“They say she faked her death.”

The ceremony was cancelled before the priest could speak a word. But I didn’t resist. I didn’t run. I simply lowered my gaze and stepped forward, calm and composed as I let the officers escort me into their black car.

Because I was no longer Dionne Carté-Pierré.

I was Wayna Scott.

At the precinct, I was taken to a gray-walled interrogation room. One investigator, cold-eyed and clean-shaven, sat across from me with a thick file on the table. “We’ve received reports that you match the physical profile of Dionne Carté. You have anything to say about that?”

I smiled politely, every movement practiced. “I think you have the wrong person. I’m Wayna Scott. You can check my records. Birthplace: New Haven. Mother: deceased. Father: John Scott, also deceased. I’ve worked under Troillan Construction as a logistics analyst for the past year.”

He studied me with suspicion, probing for cracks. But I was airtight. I had memorized every fabricated detail Francis had trained me on. From fake childhood trauma to my fake college diploma—I’d become someone else entirely.

After several hours of questioning and background checks, they let me go. There were no fingerprints matching Dionne’s. No DNA records they could pull. I’d passed.

In the parking lot, I found Francis leaning against his car, arms crossed, tension carved deep into his face. I rushed toward him. “They let me go. I followed every line we rehearsed.”

He didn’t smile.

“They’re coming,” he said simply.

My blood turned to ice. “Who?”

“My family.”

Of course. The mafia.

But why?

We didn’t talk further. Just drove home in silence, the hum of the engine masking the thunder in my chest. Over the next few weeks, Francis transformed the mansion into a fortress. Motion sensors were installed. Biometric locks. Armed guards stationed at every entrance. We doubled the security around Frederick. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone even brushing against his crib.

Meanwhile, Francis fought to keep the Troillan Construction Empire from crumbling. There were whispers among investors, suspicions about us, rumors about my arrest. To stabilize the waters, Francis publicly postponed our wedding and held emergency meetings to reassure stakeholders.

But then he came to me with something I never expected.

“I’m going to invest in Pierré Gadot’s Real Estate group.”

I nearly dropped my wine glass.

“What? Are you insane?! He’ll recognize me!”

Francis sat across from me, calm and calculated. “This is our chance to gain access—to get closer. You want revenge? You want the truth? This is how we get it.”

I hated it. I hated Pierre. I hated how my hands still shook at the mention of his name. But Francis wasn’t wrong. We’d been hiding too long. So I nodded.

“If this backfires, we’re both dead.”

Two days later, we walked into a sleek marble-floored lobby for the signing of the investment deal. And there they were—Pierre and Sharon.

Married.

Seeing them side by side was like watching my past twist a dagger into my spine. Sharon wore an expensive pearl dress, her smile venomous. Pierre looked at me with a hint of curiosity, then a nod.

He didn’t recognize me.

I was no longer Dionne in his eyes—just Wayna, Francis’s silent fiancée.

The four of us smiled for the cameras, posed with fake ease. Business first, murder second.

For the next few months, we played our roles perfectly. Francis and I attended dinners with them, laughed at their shallow jokes, shook hands on construction projects. I stood feet away from the man who ruined my life, who discarded me like garbage, and he didn’t see it. He didn’t see me.

Until he did.

It was a Thursday night when I received a message from Francis. It read: “Meet me at Maison de Rouge. I have the full story. The truth about the farmers’ deaths.”

I didn’t hesitate. I wore a black coat and left quietly. I was trembling—not from fear, but hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe we could finally close the chapter and move on.

But when I arrived… it wasn’t Francis waiting for me.

It was Pierre.

He was seated at a table in the center of the empty restaurant, swirling a glass of red wine. Every chair was empty. The staff was gone.

I froze. “W-Where is Francis?”

He looked up slowly, his smile predatory.

“I knew it! You’re that bitch ex-wife of mine, right?”

I flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he sneered. “You thought a nose job and dyed hair would fool me? I always knew it was you. I was just waiting for the right moment.”

My throat dried. I backed a step. “WHERE'S FRANCIS?”

“That’s what you should be worried about.”

He leaned forward, voice low.

“Francis will be handed to his family tonight.”

I blinked. “W-What? You know his family? Then that means…”

The blood drained from my face.

“Y-You’re part of the mafia?”

Pierre chuckled darkly, then leaned back in his chair, savoring my horror like a fine drink.

“Not just part of it,” he said slowly. “I’m the replacement for your lovely husband. The mafia organization needed a new leader. One not dying of cancer.”

“No,” I whispered. “You’re lying.”

“And one more thing, sweetheart,” he added. “I’m taking Frederick. The family wants him too. We're planning something." He chuckled.

NO! FUCK YOU, PIERRE!

“W-What are you planning?" I asked with a trembling voice.