My Fake Husband Is A Secret Billionaire

Clara stood in the shadows across the street from her old apartment building. Her clothes were still damp, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She kept her eyes fixed on the entrance of the underground parking garage.

Ten minutes later, Leo's silver Honda Civic pulled out of the garage and sped down the street.

Clara exhaled a shaky breath. She crossed the street quickly, using her spare key to unlock the heavy glass front door of the lobby. She took the stairs to the third floor, avoiding the elevator.

She unlocked the door to apartment 3B. Stepping inside, the space instantly felt alien. The smell of Leo's cheap body spray made her stomach churn with nausea.

She didn't waste time. Clara walked straight to the corner of the living room, crouching down next to a fluffy cat bed. Pumpkin, her overweight orange tabby, let out a soft, questioning meow.

"I know, buddy. We're leaving," Clara whispered, scooping the heavy cat into her arms.

She grabbed a faded canvas duffel bag from the hall closet. She moved mechanically, throwing her essential clothes, underwear, and a small bag of toiletries inside. She refused to look toward the closed bedroom door.

As she was packing her small writing desk in the living room, her eyes landed on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Sitting there, disguised as a small black speaker, was the discrete pet camera she had installed a month ago to check on Pumpkin while she was on set.

A dark, cold thought crossed Clara's mind. Her heart began to pound against her ribs.

She reached up, unplugged the camera from the wall, and dropped it into the side pocket of her duffel bag.

She zipped the bag shut, wrestled a protesting Pumpkin into his plastic carrier, and walked to the kitchen counter. She dropped her apartment keys next to the ruined birthday cake. She walked out and didn't look back.

Clara walked six blocks down the busy street until she found a cheap, run-down motel with a flickering neon sign. She paid for one night in cash at the bulletproof glass window.

She unlocked the door to Room 12. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and industrial bleach. She set the carrier down, letting Pumpkin out to explore the cramped space. The cat immediately hid under the lumpy mattress.

Clara sat on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned beneath her. She pulled her old laptop from her duffel bag, booted it up, and connected the pet camera via a USB cable.

She opened the local storage files. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, trembling slightly. She navigated to the video files time-stamped from earlier that morning.

She clicked play.

The wide-angle footage showed the living room and the clear, unobstructed view down the hallway leading to the bedroom.

Clara watched the screen. The audio was crisp. She heard the front door open. She saw Leo and Veronica enter the frame, their hands all over each other. They were kissing aggressively, stumbling down the hallway.

Then came the audio.

"She was just a stepping stone until I got my foot in the door."

"God, she is pathetic."

Clara clenched her fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms, leaving deep, crescent-shaped indentations. Her jaw ached from how hard she was grinding her teeth. She forced herself to watch the entire clip, letting the anger burn away the last remnants of her heartbreak.

She opened a basic video editing software on her laptop. She worked with cold, calculated precision. She trimmed the footage to highlight the clearest shots of Leo and Veronica's faces. She isolated the audio clip of Leo insulting her, and more importantly, a section where he mocked his own small, dedicated fanbase, calling them "gullible losers."

Clara knew that audio would destroy his carefully crafted public image as the humble, grateful rising star.

She ignored the motel's unreliable Wi-Fi, quickly activating her phone's cellular hotspot to ensure a stable, secure connection. She navigated to an encrypted server and created an anonymous email account.

She drafted an email to The Daily Dirt, the most notorious, ruthless Hollywood gossip blog in Los Angeles. She attached the trimmed video file.

Clara hesitated for a fraction of a second. Her finger hovered over the trackpad. A pang of residual sadness tightened her throat. Four years.

Then, she remembered Veronica's screeching threat. I will ruin your acting career forever.

Clara's expression hardened into stone. She clicked send. She watched the green progress bar complete the upload.

She closed the laptop with a sharp snap. She let out a long, shaky breath. A dark, heavy sense of satisfaction settled in her chest.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Clara picked it up. It was a text from the unknown number Caspian had given her.

Send your banking routing number. - C. S.

Clara typed out her bank details, hit send, and tossed the phone back onto the bed. She lay back against the flat pillows, staring at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the surreal reality of her new life setting in. She had no home, no boyfriend, and a husband she didn't know.

A minute later, a loud notification chime popped up from her banking app.

Clara picked up the phone and opened the app. She stared at the screen. Her breath caught in her throat.

Deposit received: $5,000.00.

Clara dropped the phone onto the mattress. Her eyes were wide, her heart hammering. Fifty thousand dollars. For a monthly allowance. It was more than she made in three months of exhausting background acting, a small fortune that immediately eased the crushing weight on her chest.