My Sister Pretended to be the Billionaire's Wife

Everything stopped.

The room fell into dead silence, the air thick with fear.

Mary instantly dropped her mask of arrogance and assumed a weak, innocent expression.

My mother forced a gentle, welcoming smile, while my father straightened up and tried to look harmless.

He opened the door slowly.

There, standing tall and imposing in the doorway, was Wallace.

He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his face expressionless. Behind him stood a row of bodyguards like shadows, ready to strike.

His eyes scanned the room, cold and razor-sharp.

Then his gaze landed on Mary.

And it didn’t move.

Mary’s eyes reddened instantly, and she called out in a trembling voice,

“Wallace…”

But Wallace didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His eyes, cold and unreadable, remained fixed on her.

Sensing the silence, my father quickly stepped forward, hands rubbing together nervously as he forced a smile.

“Mr. Jacobson, when we found your wife, she was unconscious by the roadside. We were worried something might happen to her, so we brought her home.”

He chuckled awkwardly.

“Luckily, we saw the news—or we wouldn’t have realized she was Mrs. Jacobson.”

My mother chimed in eagerly, her smile stiff.

“Yes, it was pure luck we crossed paths. If not, who knows what terrible things might’ve happened to her out there alone.”

Wallace’s gaze didn’t waver from Mary. His eyes narrowed, scanning every inch of her face like a hawk dissecting prey.

Then, slowly, he turned to my parents and asked in a low, cold voice,

“You’re sure… this is my wife?”

His expression was unreadable. But the chill in his tone sent a tremor down my spine.

Still blind to the danger, my parents laughed nervously, mistaking his quietness for confusion.

“Of course!” my father said quickly.

“Yes, just look at her temperament and features,” my mother added. “Even when she was unconscious, she kept murmuring your name. Isn’t that right?”

There was a long pause.

Then Wallace raised his hand.

Without a word, a pair of bodyguards stepped forward, wheeling in a stretcher covered with a white sheet.

The room fell into dead silence.

With a flick of his wrist, Wallace pulled back the cloth.

Gasps filled the air.

Lying on the stretcher was a woman’s lifeless body—bloodied, bruised, and clearly tortured beyond recognition. But despite the horror of it, I recognized her instantly.

Veronica. Mrs. Jacobson.

Even in death, her features held a tragic elegance.

Mary staggered back, her face drained of all color.

Then Wallace finally spoke, his voice low but deafening.

“If she is my wife…” he said, his eyes locked on Mary, “…then who is this?”