The Dying Billionaire's Secret Contract Wife

Elsie jolted awake on Debbi's sofa, her heart slamming against her ribs. Sunlight was trying to push through the grime of the window, but the noise at the door was consuming the room.

"Elsie! I know you're in there!"

Jed.

His voice was slurred, ragged. He was drunk at seven in the morning.

Elsie scrambled up, pulling the thin blanket around her shoulders. Debbi was already in the hallway, baseball bat in hand, looking through the peephole.

"Go away, Jed!" Debbi shouted. "I'm calling the cops!"

"Call them!" Jed screamed. The door shuddered under another blow. "Elsie, check your phone! I sent you a preview!"

Elsie's stomach dropped. Her hands trembled as she picked up her phone from the coffee table.

There was a text from Jed. An image.

It was from a year ago. A private moment in their bedroom. She was sleeping, the sheet slipped down to her waist. It wasn't explicit, but it was intimate. It was hers.

The text below it read: I have videos too. Much better ones. Pornhub pays well for amateur content, Elsie. Unless you come out here and talk to me.

Bile rose in her throat. She stumbled back, hitting the wall. The room spun. This wasn't just a bad breakup anymore. This was a hunt.

"He's crazy," Elsie whispered. "He's actually crazy."

"Police are on their way," Debbi said, her voice shaking but firm.

"They won't get here in time to stop him from posting it," Elsie said. She looked at the time. 7:15 AM.

She had a meeting.

She didn't have time to be a victim. Not today.

"Is the back fire escape clear?" Elsie asked.

Debbi looked at her. "You're leaving? Now?"

"I have to go to Wall Street," Elsie said, grabbing her purse. She felt a cold, hard resolve settling over her skin like armor. "If I stay here, I'm just his ex-fiancée. I need to be untouchable."

She climbed out the window, down the rusted iron stairs into the alleyway. She could still hear Jed screaming at the front door as she hit the pavement and ran toward the main avenue.

A black sedan was idling at the corner. The window rolled down. A driver in a dark suit looked at her over sunglasses.

"Ms. Watkins?"

Elsie paused, breathless. "Yes?"

"Mr. Vance sent me. He thought you might need a ride."

Elsie looked back toward the apartment building. She could hear sirens in the distance. She looked at the car. It was sleek, armored, a fortress on wheels.

She opened the door and got in.

Mitch Watkins' office on Wall Street was a glass box in the sky. It smelled of espresso and fear.

Elsie walked in, still wearing yesterday's clothes, though she had managed to wash her face and pull her hair back in the car.

Mitch didn't look up from his desk. He looked tired. Defeated. But when he saw her, his eyes hardened.

"You have some nerve showing up here," he spat.

"I'm not here for you," Elsie said. She looked at the other man in the room.

Silas Vance was leaning against the window, looking out at the city like he owned it. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a suit that cost more than Mitch's car. He turned to face her. His face was unreadable, his eyes dark and assessing.

"Ms. Watkins," Silas said. He didn't offer a hand. He gestured to the table. "The paperwork is ready."

A thick stack of documents sat in the center of the mahogany table.

"My father is here why?" Elsie asked, ignoring Mitch.

"Because the Hunter Trust requires a witness from the bride's family," Silas said smoothly. "And because Mr. Watkins was eager to facilitate this... union. In exchange for certain debt forgiveness."

Elsie looked at her father. "You sold me."

Mitch shrugged, lighting a cigar. "You ruined the merger with Jed. You owed me a replacement deal. This one pays better."

Elsie felt a crack in her heart, a hairline fracture that severed the last thread of attachment to her father.

"Let's get this over with," she said.

She sat down. Silas slid the document toward her.

PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT AND MARITAL CONTRACT.

She flipped through the pages. The clauses were brutal.

Clause 4: The marriage shall remain unconsummated unless directed by medical professionals for the purpose of heir production.

Clause 9: The Wife shall reside at the Hunter Estate in Long Island.

Clause 15: No assets shall be transferred to the Wife until the death of Hardin Hunter.

"Until he dies," Elsie murmured.

"It's a standard protection for a short-term arrangement," Silas said. "Given Mr. Hunter's... prognosis."

"Six months," Elsie said.

"Give or take," Silas replied. "Hardin values peace. He wants a wife who can handle the social optics, keep his mother happy, and stay out of his way while he dies."

Elsie picked up the pen. Her hand hovered over the signature line.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Another text from Jed. I'm uploading the first one now. 10% loaded.

She didn't look at it. She looked at the pen.

"I have a condition," Elsie said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. "You're not in a position to bargain."

"I want a cash advance," Elsie said. "One million dollars. Today. Wired to a separate account my father cannot touch."

Mitch slammed his hand on the desk. "Now listen here-"

"Quiet," Silas said. The single word was soft, but it silenced the room instantly. He looked at Elsie. "Why?"

"To pay off my mother's medical debts," Elsie lied. Part of it was true. But mostly, she needed "fuck off" money. She needed to buy silence. She needed lawyers to bury Jed Reeves so deep he'd need a map to find sunlight.

Silas studied her for a long moment. It felt like he was reading her DNA.

"Done," Silas said. He pulled out his phone and tapped a few keys. "Sign."

Elsie signed. The ink looked black and permanent.

Mitch grinned, a greedy, ugly expression. "Excellent. I'll call the press."

"No press," Silas said, snatching the papers back. "Mr. Hunter wants privacy. Ms. Watkins, a car will take you to the estate tonight."

"I need to make a stop first," Elsie said, standing up.

"Where?"

"To get a haircut."

Silas looked at her long, blonde waves. "Why?"

Elsie walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the cold metal handle.

"Because the girl who wore this hair was weak," she said. "And she's gone now."

She went to a salon in Tribeca and told them to cut it all off.

When she walked out, the air felt cooler on her neck. Her hair was a sharp, angled bob that framed her jaw like a weapon. She looked older. Harder.

She walked two blocks to a tactical supply store. She bought the strongest pepper spray legal in New York State. She bought a tactical flashlight that doubled as a baton.

Then she went to the bank.

The transfer from the Hunter Trust had cleared. One million dollars. The numbers on the receipt looked surreal.

She pulled out her phone to hire the reputation management firm she had researched in the cab, but her screen refreshed before she could dial. A notification popped up from her service provider: Message blocked. Sender IP restricted. She checked the browser. The link Jed had sent was dead. 404 Error.

Elsie stared at the screen, a chill running down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She hadn't done that. She hadn't had time.

Silas. It had to be.

The Hunters weren't just buying a wife; they were buying a clean slate. They had scrubbed Jed from her digital existence before the ink on the contract was even dry.

She took a cab back to her apartment-no, Jed's apartment. She packed two suitcases. She took her mother's photo, her favorite sweater, and her laptop. She left the engagement ring on the counter.

As she zipped up the suitcase, her phone pinged. A notification from the Hunter Family Office.

Transport arriving in 10 minutes. Destination: Hunter Manor.

Elsie walked to the mirror in the hallway. She looked at the stranger staring back at her. The short hair, the tired eyes, the set jaw.

"You can do this," she whispered. "He's just a man. And he's dying."

She didn't know then that she was wrong on both counts.

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