The Auctioned Wife: Escaping The Billionaire's Cage

Aleida POV

My bank account balance read forty-two dollars and sixteen cents. It was a number that meant my dignity had a price tag, and unfortunately, it was on clearance.

I needed a job. Fast.

I scrolled through listings until my eyes blurred, ignoring the ones that required degrees I hadn't finished because I was too busy playing the perfect housewife.

Then I saw it.

A junior assistant position at a high-end photography studio. Immediate start. Cash pay options.

It was suspicious, too good to be true, but desperation makes you blind to red flags.

I walked into the studio the next morning, my portfolio tucked tightly under my arm. It was thin, filled with sketches from a life I had abandoned for Derek.

"You're hired," the studio manager said, not even bothering to open my folder.

He didn't look at my art. He looked at his watch.

"We are short-staffed for the VIP shoot today," he said, thrusting a light reflector into my hands. "Get to Set B. Don't speak unless spoken to."

I walked onto Set B and froze.

The backdrop was a romantic Parisian street scene. Faux cobblestones, faux streetlamps, faux snow.

But the people standing in the center of it were very real.

Derek was adjusting his cufflinks with practiced ease. Else was twirling in a red silk dress that looked like a pool of blood against the white set.

My breath hitched in my throat.

This wasn't a coincidence. This was a setup.

I turned to leave, but the manager barked at me.

"Hey, new girl! Hold the light steady. We're burning time."

Derek looked up. His eyes locked onto mine.

For a second, he looked startled. Then, his expression smoothed into that mask of indifference I had come to hate.

Else saw me a second later. Her smile widened, sharp and predatory.

"Well, look who it is," she cooed, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "I didn't know you were reduced to fetching coffee, Aleida."

I gripped the reflector handle until my knuckles turned white. I needed the money. I needed to eat. I needed a ticket out of this city.

"I'm just here to work," I said, my voice flat.

"Good," Else said. "Then work."

She turned to the photographer.

"I want this to be intimate," she commanded. "Really capture the love."

For the next four hours, I was forced to stand three feet away while my husband held another woman.

"Chin up, Derek," the photographer shouted. "Look at her like she's the only woman in the world."

Derek looked at Else. He smiled.

It was the same smile he gave me on our wedding day.

"Okay, now kiss her!"

Derek leaned in. He cupped her face. He kissed her, deep and slow.

I watched. I didn't look away. I forced myself to watch every second of it.

I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I turned the pain into fuel. Every kiss was another brick in the wall I was building between us.

"That's it!" Else laughed, pulling away.

She looked over Derek's shoulder, straight at me.

"Did you get the lighting right on that one, Aleida? I want to make sure everyone sees how happy we are."

My arms ached from holding the equipment. My legs shook.

"Perfect," I said.

When the shoot finally ended, the manager told me I had to stay on site.

"The client requested extended hours," he said, handing me a key card. "You're in the staff dorms upstairs. Be ready at 6 AM."

I walked up to the dorm room. It was a small box with a single bed and thin walls.

I lay down, staring at the ceiling, trying to calculate how many more hours of this I needed to endure to afford a plane ticket.

Then I heard it.

Laughter coming from the room next door.

It was the VIP suite.

I heard the clink of glasses. I heard Else's high-pitched giggle.

"Derek, stop," she squealed.

I heard the low rumble of his voice. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was familiar. It was the voice he used to use to talk me to sleep.

Then came other sounds. The creak of a bed frame. The heavy thud of a headboard hitting the wall.

My wall.

I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I clamped my hands over my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut.

But I couldn't block it out. The rhythm of their betrayal vibrated through the plaster.

I felt like I was suffocating. The air in the room turned thick and heavy.

I wasn't crying. I was past crying.

I was suffocating under the weight of my own stupidity for ever loving him.

I sat there in the dark, rocking back and forth, listening to my husband make love to the woman who had helped him kill our child.

And in that darkness, the last ember of my love for him finally flickered out.