Marriage with the Dying Billionaire

The words hung in the air like a loaded gun.

“He’s been watching you since the beginning,” Loretta said, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Pierre never intended to let you go.”

I felt a slow burn spread through my chest—not fear, not confusion—but rage. The kind of rage that simmers in silence, feeding off betrayal and loss. My ex-husband hadn’t just broken me; he’d built an entire performance of pain, orchestrated cruelty like a symphony conductor. And now I was the crescendo he planned to control.

“Then we make the first move,” I whispered, my fists curling so tightly I could feel my nails dig into flesh. “Before he does.”

Loretta's sharp eyes never blinked. "That’s what I wanted to hear."

We began that night.

Loretta led me through an elevator behind a painting in her study—the walls slid open like the set of a spy film. Below us, a sprawling underground facility buzzed with cold blue light. Weapons lined one wall, tech gear another. In the center stood a training ring.

"This is your battlefield now," she said.

For days, I became a different woman. Gone was the socialite in silk dresses and soft words. I trained from dawn to midnight. Firing ranges, close-combat sparring, tactical tech skills. My body screamed with every movement, bruises blooming like purple flowers across my ribs. Loretta didn’t go easy on me.

“Pain is your friend,” she told me as I winced from a knife nick on my palm. “It keeps you sharp. Alive.”

Each day hardened me. I was no longer running. I was preparing for war.

Five days later, we moved.

Under the identities of Iris Mendez and her European business partner, we arrived at the heart of the city: a private gentleman’s club known only to those with power and blood on their hands. Beneath it was one of the Troillan family’s oldest data vaults—a steel tomb of secrets.

We blended into the crowd like shadows. My black leather coat clung to me like armor. Loretta wore crimson, lips blood-red, eyes alert behind diamond-framed glasses. We moved like predators.

The club's interior was velvet and vice—cigar smoke curling through the air, whispers of dirty deals lingering in the corners.

Downstairs, the vault entrance was disguised as a wine cellar. A retinal scan, two voiceprints, and a six-digit code later, we were inside.

The cold hit first—the kind that gnawed at bones. Fluorescent lights flickered above racks of servers, humming with encrypted sins. We slipped past two guards knocked out with a silent dart Loretta had slipped from her thigh holster.

"There it is," I whispered, pointing to a drive marked in faded black ink: PROJECT ORCHID - D.CARTÉ

I moved fast, hands steady, heart thundering. The decryption tool Francis once gave me glowed green as it began extracting data.

Then everything went wrong.

Footsteps. Rapid. Heavy.

The lights flickered again—then cut completely.

Red emergency lights bathed the vault in a haunting glow.

Loretta drew her gun. “They know.”

“How?” I asked, panic rising.

“It doesn’t matter. Run!”

The flash drive popped free just as masked men stormed the corridor. Shouts. Muzzle flashes. I ducked behind a server tower as bullets tore into metal.

Loretta fired three shots, each one deadly accurate.

"Now, Wayna!"

I sprinted, adrenaline burning through my veins. I kicked open a side panel, crawled through a ventilation shaft, and found myself above an open stairwell. I didn’t hesitate. I jumped.

Glass shattered around me as I crashed through a third-story window, plummeting into the icy black river below.

The shock of cold water slammed into me like cement. My lungs locked. The current seized me, dragging me under. I fought upward, arms flailing, water filling my nose and mouth. Finally, I surfaced, gasping, blinking away salt and blood.

I swam until my muscles gave out and dragged myself onto the muddy shore, teeth chattering. Somewhere behind me, sirens echoed.

I disappeared into the shadows.

The safehouse was no more than four concrete walls and a rusted bedframe, but it was quiet. I stripped off my soaked clothes, wrapped myself in a scratchy blanket, and tried not to think about how close death had come.

The burner phone buzzed.

I answered with trembling fingers.

"W-Wayna? Wife?"

I froze. That voice.

"Francis?"

“Yes. I’m alive. But I don’t have long. They’re moving me constantly—every few hours. I escaped once. They caught me again.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I thought you were dead. I thought—”

“You have to listen to me,” he said urgently. “Someone’s feeding them information. Someone close to you. Someone you trust."

Static. Then the line cut.

I stared at the silent phone.

Someone I trust.

I returned to Loretta’s estate at dawn, drenched, shivering, and silent. She was waiting with warm towels, a robe, and hot jasmine tea. No questions. No judgments.

“I got the data,” I said quietly.

Her lips twitched with relief. “Good.”

Then she handed me a manila folder.

“If you’re starting to doubt me, open this.”

I did.

The photo inside made my blood run cold.