The Invisible Wife's Billionaire Revenge

The morning sunlight that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows was cruel. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and highlighted the pristine, undisturbed emptiness of the other side of the bed.

Sebastian hadn't come home.

Catherine woke up with a dry mouth and a dull headache—a symptom of the anemia she now suspected was worsening. She sat up slowly, her joints stiff. She checked her phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just a notification from The New York Times about the stock market opening.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. It wasn't him.

"Hello?" Her voice was raspy.

"Ms. Vanderbilt? It's Martha, from the care facility."

Catherine sat up straighter, ignoring the wave of dizziness. "Is Julian okay?"

"He's... agitated," Martha said gently. "He's been asking for you. He keeps repeating 'Saturday protocol' and rocking. He thinks you're angry with him because you didn't call last night."

Catherine closed her eyes, guilt washing over her. She usually called Julian every evening at 7:00 PM sharp. Last night, she had been too busy crying on the floor to remember.

"I'm so sorry, Martha. Tell him... tell him I was working late. Tell him I'll bring his favorite red velvet cupcakes this weekend. Saturday protocol is still on."

"I'll tell him, Ms. Vanderbilt. Take care."

Catherine hung up and stared at the black screen. Julian was the only reason she was still breathing. He was the only person in the world who needed her. If she... if things got worse... what would happen to him? Sebastian viewed him as a line item on an expense report. If she wasn't there to enforce the care, Julian would be moved to a state facility within a month.

She heard the electronic beep of the front door lock.

Catherine forced herself out of bed. She threw on a silk dressing gown, tying the sash tight around her waist to hide how thin she had become. She walked out into the open-concept living area just as Sebastian entered.

He looked fresh. His hair was damp and styled, he was wearing a crisp new suit, and he smelled of shower gel and... something floral. Santal 33. Serena's perfume. He had showered at her place. Or at a hotel.

He stopped when he saw her, his expression unreadable. He didn't look guilty. He looked like a man who had handled a crisis.

He walked over to the kitchen island and placed a small, velvet red box on the marble surface.

"For last night," he said. He didn't make eye contact. He began taking things out of his briefcase—laptop, files, a tablet.

Catherine stared at the box. It was the universal language of the Vanderbilt men: I messed up, here is something shiny, stop talking.

She walked over and flipped the lid open.

Inside sat a Cartier Love Bracelet. The thick gold band was paved with diamonds. It was worth more than most people's annual salary. It glittered aggressively under the kitchen lights.

Catherine felt a wave of nausea. It was a shackle. A golden, diamond-encrusted shackle.

"Is she okay?" Catherine asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

Sebastian paused in the middle of pouring himself a coffee. "It was a false alarm. But she's fragile, Catherine. The transition back to New York has been hard on her."

"A false alarm," Catherine repeated. "So you missed our anniversary dinner for a false alarm."

"I didn't know that at the time," he said defensively. He took a sip of the black coffee. "I can't abandon her. Our families go back three generations. I owe her father that much."

Catherine snapped the velvet box shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.

"Do you love me, Sebastian? Even a little?"

The question hung in the air, raw and uncomfortable. Sebastian set his mug down slowly. He looked at her, his blue eyes cool and assessing.

"We have a partnership, Catherine. We have a life that works. Don't make it messy with sentimental questions."

He reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a thick document. He slid it across the island, pushing the jewelry box aside.

"Legal updated the NDA. I need you to sign it."

Catherine frowned, picking up the papers. "An NDA? For what?"

"Regarding Serena's employment."

Catherine felt the blood drain from her face. "You hired her?"

"VP of Public Relations," Sebastian said calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. "She needs stability. A routine. It's the best way to help her recover."

"You hired your ex-girlfriend... the woman you ran to last night... to handle your public image?" Catherine laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "And you want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement so I can't talk about it?"

"It's standard procedure for executive hires with personal connections," Sebastian said, checking his watch. "It protects the company. And it protects you."

"Protects me?"

"It stops the press from spinning stories about a love triangle. If you sign this, you acknowledge her role is professional. It kills the rumors before they start."

Catherine looked at the document. It was a gag order. He was bringing his mistress—emotional or otherwise—into his daily life, into the very building where Catherine sometimes worked on her fashion line, and he was legally binding Catherine to silence.

She looked at the Cartier bracelet. Then at the document.

I need the money, she thought. I need the Vanderbilt trust to keep paying for Julian's facility. If I divorce him now, the pre-nup gives me almost nothing because we haven't hit the five-year mark. Julian would be on the street.

She had to stay. She had to endure. For Julian.

"Two years," Catherine said suddenly.

Sebastian looked confused. "What?"

"I'll sign it," she said, grabbing a pen from the counter. She signed her name with aggressive, sharp strokes, the nib tearing the paper slightly. "But in two years... if we aren't a real family... if this..." she gestured between them, "...is still just a partnership... you let me go. No contest. Full settlement."

Sebastian shrugged, taking the paper back. He clearly thought she was bluffing. He thought she was addicted to the lifestyle, to the prestige. He couldn't imagine she would ever actually leave.

"Fine," he said dismissively. "Two years."

I won't be here in two years, Catherine thought, a cold acceptance settling in her chest. If this sickness is what I think it is, I won't have to worry about contracts.

"Good," she said.

Sebastian checked his watch again. "I have to go. Board meeting."

He grabbed his briefcase and walked out, not even pausing to kiss her cheek. The door clicked shut.

Catherine stood alone in the kitchen. She picked up the red velvet box. She didn't put it on. She walked to the junk drawer near the fridge and pulled it open.

Inside, thrown haphazardly among takeout menus and spare batteries, were five other velvet boxes. Tiffany, Bulgari, Van Cleef. A graveyard of apologies.

She tossed the Cartier bracelet in with the others and slammed the drawer shut.