Married To The Fake Mad Billionaire

The Owen dining room smelled of roasted lamb and expensive perfume.

Francisqui sat rigid in her chair. The red silk dress clung to her skin like a second layer of sweat.

Mr. Grossman sat directly across from her. He was sweating through his suit. He chewed with his mouth open, his eyes glued to Francisqui's chest.

Kaleigh sat next to Grossman. She held a glass of Merlot. "Oops," Kaleigh said, flicking her wrist.

Red wine splashed across Francisqui's lap, staining the silk.

"Oh no, did my hand slip?" Kaleigh smirked.

Grossman immediately reached across the table. He grabbed a cloth napkin. "Let me help you with that, Francisqui."

His thick, damp hand pressed onto her bare thigh.

Francisqui's stomach violently rejected the contact. She shot out of her chair. Her hand gripped the silver steak knife next to her plate.

Franklin slammed his fist on the table. He glared at her. Sit down. For the family.

Francisqui's lungs tightened. She couldn't breathe. She looked at the door. Where was he?

The heavy dining room doors flew open. The butler stumbled backward, his face drained of color.

"Sir," the butler stammered. "Mr. Livingston is here."

The room went dead silent. Franklin dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate. "Which Livingston?"

"Burleigh."

Vance pushed the custom wheelchair into the room. Burleigh wore a tailored black velvet suit. A cashmere blanket covered his legs. His skin was pale, but the energy radiating from him sucked the oxygen out of the room.

Grossman snatched his hand back from Francisqui's leg as if he had been burned. Every man on Wall Street feared Burleigh Livingston.

Franklin scrambled out of his chair. He forced a sickeningly sweet smile. "Burleigh! What an unexpected honor."

Burleigh ignored him. He didn't look at Franklin. He didn't look at Kaleigh.

His dark eyes locked onto Francisqui. He saw the wine stain. He saw Grossman's sweaty face.

"Am I interrupting a transaction, Owen?" Burleigh's voice was smooth, but it carried a lethal edge.

Francisqui felt a shiver run down her spine. She stared back at him, her face a mask of ice.

Burleigh turned his head toward Franklin. "I hear the Owen Group is bleeding cash. Selling your bastard daughter to plug the holes?"

Franklin wiped sweat from his forehead. "Burleigh, please, this is a family dinner-"

"How much is Grossman paying?" Burleigh asked. He didn't wait for an answer.

Burleigh reached into his jacket. He pulled out a solid metal Centurion Black Card. He tossed it onto the center of the dining table. It landed with a heavy thud.

"I'll double it," Burleigh said. "She's mine tonight."

Kaleigh gasped, her face turning purple with jealousy.

Francisqui's heart hammered against her ribs. This was her opening. She walked to the table. She picked up the Black Card. The metal was cold against her skin.

She walked over to Burleigh's wheelchair. She leaned down. Her lips hovered an inch from his ear.

She opened her mouth. Her throat tightened, the familiar suffocating paralysis clamping down like a vice. She dug her fingernails into her palms, using the sharp, grounding pain to fight the psychological block. Her jaw trembled. A single, agonizingly raspy syllable tore its way up her throat.

"Deal."

She couldn't manage another word. Her chest heaved as she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She held it up so only he could see the text: But I don't sleep with clients.

Burleigh's muscles went completely rigid. His pupils dilated. She wasn't entirely mute.

He tilted his head, his face inches from hers. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Let's see what you do instead."

Francisqui grabbed the handles of his wheelchair. She turned him around and pushed him out of the dining room, leaving her family in stunned, humiliating silence.