The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife

Aimee locked the door to the guest bedroom. The heavy click of the deadbolt echoed in the quiet room. She collapsed onto the edge of the king-sized bed, staring blankly at the glowing screen of her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then mindlessly tapped the Facebook icon.

She scrolled through her camera roll until she found a faded, digitized photograph. It was a picture of her mother, taken years ago under the Brooklyn Bridge. Her mother was laughing, her hair blowing wildly in the wind.

Today was the anniversary of her mother's death.

Aimee typed out a short caption: Another year without you. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today. I miss your laugh.

Set the entire line to be visible only to Cameron. She hit post.

The emotional exhaustion finally caught up to her. Her skin felt grimy from the sweat of panic and the lingering smell of the workshop. She needed to wash the day off. She stood up, stripped off her cheap clothes, and walked into the en-suite bathroom.

She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. The scalding water battered against her shoulders, turning her pale skin pink. Thick, heavy steam quickly filled the small space, fogging up the mirrors. Under the roar of the water, Aimee finally let her guard down. Her chest heaved, and she sobbed silently, the tears mixing with the shower water streaming down her face.

Meanwhile, in the study down the hall, Cameron was aggressively flipping through a quarterly earnings report. The numbers on the page were blurring together. His mind kept flashing back to the look of absolute despair in Aimee's eyes when she was sitting at the kitchen island.

He picked up his phone to check an email from Clara. As he unlocked the screen, a Facebook notification popped up.

Cameron tapped the notification. Aimee's post filled his screen.

He stared at the picture of the smiling woman. He read the caption. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. The cold, impenetrable armor he wore around his heart cracked just a fraction. He remembered the suffocating pressure of his own family trust, the way he had been forced to sacrifice his own freedom for the Fox empire. For the first time, he looked at Aimee not as a greedy opportunist, but as a daughter desperately trying to keep her family afloat.

He needed an excuse to check on her. He grabbed a tax exemption form from his desk that required her signature. He stood up and walked down the long hallway to her guest room.

He knocked twice. There was no answer. Assuming she was asleep, he turned the handle. The door opened.

Cameron stepped into the room, intending to leave the file on the nightstand.

At that exact second, the sound of running water stopped. The bathroom door handle clicked.

The door swung open, unleashing a massive cloud of thick, humid steam into the bedroom.

Aimee stepped out.

She was dripping wet. Her hair was plastered to her collarbones. She was wrapped in a single, stark white hotel-style towel that barely covered her. The hem stopped dangerously high on her thighs. The hot water had flushed her skin a deep, rosy pink, and beads of water traced paths down her bare legs.

Cameron froze. He turned his head, and his eyes collided with the sight of her.

His pupils dilated instantly. The breath was violently knocked out of his lungs.

Aimee looked up. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, gripping the edges of the towel in a death grip. The sudden movement caused the bottom of the towel to hike up another inch. She took a panicked step backward, her bare feet slipping slightly on the hardwood floor.

Cameron's Adam's apple bobbed hard. A sudden, intense heat flared in his lower abdomen. He immediately averted his eyes, spinning around so his back was facing her.

"I... I brought the tax forms," Cameron said. His voice was completely unrecognizable-rough, gravelly, and strained with the effort of keeping his physical reactions in check.

"Get out!" Aimee stammered, her face burning so hot she felt dizzy. "Please, just get out!"

Cameron took a long stride toward the bedroom door. His hand grasped the brass handle.

But as he pulled the door open, the reality of her father's threat pierced through Aimee's blinding shame. Logic violently overrode her modesty. If he walked out that door, she lost her only chance.

"Wait!" Aimee cried out. She took two steps forward, her voice cracking with a desperate, raw edge. "Please, Cameron. Just this weekend. Please reconsider and accompany me home to meet my father."

Cameron stopped. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the vivid image of her wet, flushed skin out of his mind.

He turned his head slightly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the wall above her head, refusing to look down.

"One time," Cameron said, his voice rigid but lacking its usual cruelty. "I will do this exactly one time. Put some clothes on before you ruin the hardwood floors."

Aimee's eyes widened. The crushing weight on her chest vanished, replaced by a dizzying rush of relief. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. She nodded frantically, clutching the towel tighter. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Cameron felt that irritating flutter in his chest again at the sight of her tears. He pulled the door open to leave.

He paused in the doorway. He didn't turn around. He kept his broad back to her, his posture stiff.

"What does your father like to eat?" Cameron asked, the words sounding awkward and foreign on his tongue. "I will have Martha prepare something."

Aimee stood frozen in the middle of the room. She stared at his retreating back as the door clicked shut. Her heart, which had been racing from fear, suddenly skipped a beat, fluttering wildly against her ribs at the unexpected, jarring gentleness of his question.

Aimee lay in bed and silently deleted the post that was only visible to Cameron.

If she judgment is correct, did he soften his heart after reading the post?It seems that he is just indifferent on the surface, but actually much better than imagined.