The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife

The Maybach glided smoothly onto the Long Island Expressway. The moment the tires hit the asphalt, the thick soundproof partition behind the driver's seat hummed as it rose, sealing the rear cabin into an absolute, private void.

Aimee felt as if the invisible strings holding her upright had been violently severed. Her spine collapsed against the plush leather seat. She completely shed the gentle, refined persona of Eveline Butler.

She reached down, her fingers fumbling with the straps of her cheap heels. She kicked the shoes off. Her feet were throbbing, the skin on her heels rubbed raw and blistered from standing in the stiff material for hours. She pulled her aching legs up, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her skirt, completely ignoring the billionaire sitting less than two feet away from her.

Cameron turned his head slightly. His icy blue eyes swept over her curled-up posture. The muscle in his jaw feathered. He despised lack of decorum.

"Is this how you normally behave?" Cameron asked, his voice laced with a thin layer of disgust.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare. She turned her head and met his gaze head-on. Her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, but she didn't flinch.

"I am off the clock, Mr. Fox," Aimee said, her voice dry and raspy. "I read the contract thoroughly. It does not include private performances when your grandmother is not present."

Cameron's breath hitched slightly, choked by her blunt audacity. He let out a harsh, cold scoff, turning his face toward the tinted window. He didn't speak another word.

The silence in the cabin grew thick and suffocating.

Aimee dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her pale face. There was a new text message from her workshop's assistant manager. It was another frantic update about the loan sharks threatening to show up at dawn. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twisted violently in her gut.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting a faint metallic hint of blood. She turned her head to look at Cameron's sharp profile. She forced herself to take a deep breath, pushing down the massive wave of humiliation rising in her chest.

"When will the ten million dollar injection hit the workshop's account?" Aimee asked. Her voice wavered slightly, betraying her desperation.

Cameron tapped his long, manicured fingers against his knee. The rhythmic tapping sounded like a countdown in the quiet car.

"The disbursement of the trust funds is entirely dependent on the stability of your performance," Cameron stated, his tone dripping with oppressive authority. "If you slip up, the money stops."

Aimee's chest burned. The humiliation was a physical weight pressing down on her lungs. But logic forced her to swallow the anger. She needed him.

"I will fulfill my duties perfectly," Aimee forced the words out through gritted teeth.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen. He knew the exact amount that would keep her desperate enough to stay, yet relieved enough to perform flawlessly. He was buying her absolute, unwavering compliance, ensuring she understood that as long as she played her part perfectly, he held the keys to her salvation. A few seconds later, Aimee's phone buzzed violently in her hand.

She looked down. It was an alert from her banking app. A deposit of one hundred thousand dollars had just cleared into her personal checking account.

Aimee stared at the long string of zeros. Her eyes widened in pure shock. She looked up at Cameron, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Cameron didn't even bother to look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. "That is your bonus for successfully deceiving my grandmother tonight," he said, his tone making it sound like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. "And to ensure you buy clothes that don't smell like machine oil."

Aimee gripped her phone so tightly her fingers cramped. One hundred thousand dollars was life-saving money right now. It could pay off the immediate interest to the loan sharks and buy her father some time. She took her fragile pride, threw it on the floorboards, and crushed it.

"Thank you, boss," Aimee whispered, her voice hollow.

That single word-boss-reeked of transactional desperation. It hit Cameron's ears and sparked a sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation in his chest. He reached up and aggressively loosened his silk tie. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, pretending to sleep.

Aimee rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window. The adrenaline that had kept her going all night completely evaporated. The crushing weight of the impending bankruptcy, her father's failing health, and the sheer terror of this fake marriage crashed over her all at once.

The amber lights of the highway flickered across her face in a hypnotic rhythm. Aimee's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Her breathing slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic cycle.

The Maybach descended into the subterranean tunnel leading into Manhattan. The ambient light in the cabin vanished, plunging them into darkness.

Cameron opened his eyes. Without the distraction of the passing city, his gaze was drawn involuntarily to the woman sitting beside him.

Aimee was completely unconscious. As the heavy car navigated a slight curve in the tunnel, her body lost its balance. Her head bobbed once, twice, and then she slumped sideways, falling directly toward Cameron.

Cameron's muscles instantly coiled. His instinct was to raise his hand and shove her back to her side of the seat. He hated physical contact. He hated the invasion of his personal space.

But the moment his fingertips brushed against the fabric covering her shoulder, his hand froze in mid-air.

Aimee's head landed softly against his bicep. She let out a tiny, unconscious sigh. She rubbed her cheek against the expensive wool of his suit jacket, instinctively seeking out the warmth, and settled into a comfortable position.

Cameron's entire body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. A faint scent drifted up to his nose-a mixture of cheap vanilla body wash and the distinct, metallic tang of industrial machine oil. It was a scent that absolutely did not belong in his pristine world. It made his chest feel tight.

He looked down at her. In the dim light, he could see the dark, bruised-looking circles under her eyes. The harsh, defensive mask she wore while awake was completely gone. In sleep, she looked incredibly fragile, like a glass ornament on the verge of shattering.

Cameron's mind flashed to the background check Clara had handed him. It detailed how this woman had been working eighteen-hour days, trying to single-handedly save a sinking factory to protect her father's property. The icy contempt that usually resided in his eyes melted away, replaced by a strange, unsettling quiet.

The Maybach emerged from the tunnel. Up front, the chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, preparing to announce their arrival.

The driver's eyes met Cameron's in the reflection. Cameron's gaze was lethal. He shot the driver a look so full of dark warning that the man instantly snapped his mouth shut.

The driver immediately eased off the gas pedal, bringing the massive vehicle to a crawling, perfectly smooth pace as they entered the underground parking garage of the Upper East Side penthouse.

The car glided into its designated spot. The engine cut off with a soft click.

The cabin was dead silent. The only sound was the soft, even intake of Aimee's breath.

Cameron did not wake her. He sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his arm trapped beneath her weight. In the gloomy lighting of the concrete garage, he simply stared at this foreign invader who had crashed into his meticulously controlled life.

A sudden chill from the garage air seeped into the car. Aimee shivered in her sleep. She unconsciously shrank closer to the heat radiating from Cameron's body. Her hands moved, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his suit jacket near his waist.

Cameron looked down at her hands. He saw the small, rough calluses on her palms and fingertips-the physical proof of her manual labor.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation fluttered deep within his chest cavity. It was a tiny, rhythmic pulse of something that felt dangerously like empathy.