The Billionaire's Secret Paper Wife

The Honda Civic's engine sputters as Chantal pulls to the curb outside the towering glass and steel monolith of Valdez Corp.

She steps out of the car, her cheap trench coat offering no protection against the biting wind coming off the Hudson River. She pushes through the heavy revolving doors and steps into the lobby.

The air inside is warm and smells of expensive floor wax and money.

Chantal walks straight to the massive marble front desk. Her legs feel like lead, but she forces her spine to stay perfectly straight.

"Chantal Lewis," she says to the receptionist. "I am here to see Dell Valdez."

The receptionist, a woman in a flawless designer suit, types on her keyboard without looking up.

"I do not see an appointment for you, Ms. Lewis," the receptionist says, her tone dripping with polite dismissal. "I will have to ask you to leave."

Chantal reaches into her bag. Her fingers are trembling, so she pinches her palm hard to stop the shaking. She pulls out a thick manila envelope sealed with a dark red wax stamp.

"Call Finn Voss," Chantal says, sliding the envelope across the marble counter. "Tell him I have the Lewis family crest."

The receptionist looks at the wax seal. Her condescending expression falters. She picks up the phone and dials a short extension. She whispers into the receiver, her eyes darting back to Chantal.

A moment later, the receptionist hangs up. She slides a sleek black keycard across the desk.

"Top floor," she says, her voice tight. "The private elevator is to your right."

Chantal takes the card. She walks past the security turnstiles and steps into the glass-walled elevator.

She swipes the card. The elevator shoots upward at a terrifying speed.

Chantal's stomach drops to the floor. The Manhattan skyline falls away beneath her, making her dizzy. She stares fixedly at the digital floor counter, watching the numbers blur until it stops at the penthouse level.

The doors slide open.

A man in a sharp gray suit is waiting for her. Finn Voss, the executive assistant.

Finn looks her up and down, his eyes lingering on her scuffed shoes. He does not say a word. He simply turns and walks down the long, silent hallway.

Chantal follows him. They stop in front of a pair of massive mahogany doors.

Finn pushes the doors open, steps aside, and gestures for her to enter. The moment she crosses the threshold, the doors click shut behind her.

The office is cavernous. It feels less like a workspace and more like a throne room.

A man is standing with his back to her, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling city below.

He turns around.

Dell Valdez.

His face is a masterclass in sharp angles and cold cruelty. His dark eyes lock onto hers, and the sheer physical weight of his stare makes Chantal's breath hitch in her throat.

He walks slowly to the massive black desk and sits down. He does not offer her a seat. He just stares.

Chantal hides her shaking hands behind her back. She walks up to the edge of the desk and places the manila envelope down.

"I need fifty million dollars," Chantal says. Her voice does not waver.

Dell does not look at the envelope. His eyes remain fixed on her face.

"And why," Dell says, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrates in her chest, "would I give you a single cent?"

Chantal lifts her chin. "Because in exchange, I will be your wife."

The silence in the room becomes suffocating.

Dell's eyes narrow. He leans forward, picks up the envelope, and rips it open. He pulls out the business proposal she spent all night writing. He flips through the first two pages.

He lets out a low, dark laugh. The sound sends a shiver down Chantal's spine.

"A paper wife," Dell mocks, tossing the document back onto the desk. "How incredibly cheap."

"Your company is facing a massive PR crisis after the federal investigation into your previous board members," Chantal says, forcing the words out quickly before she loses her nerve. "Your stock is bleeding. A sudden, stable marriage to a woman from a clean, old-money political family will stabilize your public image. The market value you will gain far exceeds fifty million."

Dell stops laughing. He stares at her, his jaw ticking.

Suddenly, he stands up.

He walks around the edge of the desk. He takes slow, deliberate steps until he is standing directly in front of her.

Chantal's entire body screams at her to step back, but she forces her feet to stay planted. She tilts her head up to look at him.

Dell leans down. His face is mere inches from hers. The scent of him-sharp winter air and something dark and masculine-wraps around her like a physical grip.

"You have no leverage here, Ms. Lewis," Dell whispers, his breath brushing against her cheek. "You are begging."

Chantal's heart hammers violently against her ribs.

"It is a transaction," she fires back, refusing to break eye contact. "We both get what we need."

Dell straightens up. A flash of something unreadable crosses his dark eyes.

"Get out," Dell commands. "I will think about it."