The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

His touch sent revulsion rippling across my skin. I recoiled instantly, pushing his hand away with two fingers as if he were contagious.

Asher's expression darkened. "What's wrong with you?"

I scrambled for an excuse, but Jessica saved me the trouble.

"Asher?" Her voice floated from the bathroom, sugary and helpless. "How do I turn on the shower?"

He didn't hesitate. "Don't touch anything—the floor's slippery. I'm coming."

As he rushed to her aid, I slipped back into my bedroom and locked the door, leaning against the wood as silence finally descended.

My hands trembled as I dialed Sophie. She picked up immediately, her voice vibrating with rage.

"That absolute bastard! After everything he did to marry you? The vows, the sacrifices? It's barely been a few years, and he drags a mistress into your home?"

"What exactly did he do?" I asked. "You keep talking about how much he loved me."

Listening to her account, I struggled to reconcile the devoted husband she described with the nemesis I remembered.

According to Sophie, everything changed ten years ago. Asher and I had gotten into a vicious argument over a business project that ended with both of us falling from a rooftop. He escaped with stitches. I suffered a severe fracture that led to a secondary infection—ended up in the ICU, fighting for my life.

For that entire month, Asher camped outside the ICU doors. Chain-smoked until his voice was raw. Eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness. Refused to leave his post.

Sophie said facing my possible death broke him. He realized his hatred for me had been a waste of time. Confessed to the empty corridor that if heaven gave him another chance, he would never let go.

When I finally woke up, he collapsed.

The man who prided himself on bleeding without shedding a tear held me and wept openly, oblivious to onlookers. The man who never believed in gods knelt in the hospital hallway, praying in gratitude.

From that day on, he changed. Reined in his temper. Handed the disputed project over to me without a fight. Stopped obstructing my business deals. Even learned to cook, determined to nurse me back to health personally.

Before the accident, Asher had been a notorious playboy—always surrounded by rumors and starlets. He cut them all off. Cleanly. Ruthlessly.

At the ribbon-cutting ceremony for his new company, he raised a diamond ring in front of the press, declaring he would love only me for the rest of his life. Instituted a public rule: any woman had to stay at least three meters away from him.

He was serious. Fired female employees who violated the boundary, causing a city-wide uproar. Everyone knew the arrogant Asher Vance had tamed his wild nature solely for me.

Sophie's story sounded like a fairy tale. It didn't match the jagged edges of my memory.

I only remembered that Asher and I had been mortal enemies since childhood. If I scored first place, he poured ink on my textbook. I shredded his class notes in retaliation.

During our final exams, he deliberately spread rumors about my father's affair to rattle me. I retaliated by finding his family's illegitimate child and bringing him to school, instructing the boy to call Asher "Big Brother" in front of everyone. His face went pale with rage.

Graduation didn't end the war—just moved it to the boardroom. Whatever industry we entered became a fight to the death.

He instructed his staff to overwater the expensive "money trees" in my office until they rotted. I broke into his estate and plucked the feathers off his prized goose.

The next time he hosted a VIP partner, the bald, furious goose attacked the client. The deal fell through. I laughed until my sides ached.

Yet when our animosity peaked, the line between hate and lust blurred.

We'd argue in his office until our faces were flushed, verbal sparring turning physical until neither of us knew who kissed whom first. Uncontrollable. Fueled by adrenaline and rage.

The next morning, I'd kick him out of bed, mocking his performance. "Lousy technique."

"You're just frigid," he'd retort, buttoning his shirt.

Despite the insults, our hotel receipts piled up.

He never asked me to be his girlfriend. Never mentioned love. On Valentine's Day, roses would arrive with a card simply signed: Boyfriend.

We played cruel games. If he was angry, he'd find a starlet and kiss her passionately by the fountain, dark eyes fixed on me the entire time. I found it amusing. I'd grab the nearest handsome waiter, loop my arms around his neck, and flirt.

While admiring the waiter's flushed cheeks, I'd listen with satisfaction to the sound of a glass shattering in Asher's grip across the room.