The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge

The waiting room of the law firm smelled of lemon polish and old money.

Jocelyn smoothed the fabric of her skirt for the tenth time. She sat on the edge of a plush leather chair, her spine rigid. The broker had been efficient. Mr. Vincent is looking for a candidate today. Be there at 9.

She checked her watch. 8:58 AM.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Jocelyn stood up instinctively.

A man walked in.

He wasn't what she expected. The tabloids usually showed Babe Vincent stumbling out of clubs, shirt unbuttoned, a blur of motion and vice.

This man was stillness personified.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that fit him with architectural precision. His dark hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place. He carried an air of authority that made the air in the room feel thinner.

Jocelyn's breath hitched. He was far more handsome in person. The blurry photos didn't do justice to the sharp line of his jaw or the intensity of his dark eyes.

The man paused when he saw her. His hand froze on the doorknob for a fraction of a second.

Gaston Collins stared at the woman standing by the chair.

It's her.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The girl from the gala three years ago. The one in the blue dress who had hidden in the library to read while everyone else drank champagne. He had watched her from the balcony, captivated, but he had never approached. She was with Douglas.

Now, she was here. In a lawyer's office known for arranging sham marriages.

Jocelyn extended a hand, her fingers trembling slightly. "Mr. Vincent? I'm Jocelyn Wolfe."

Gaston looked at her hand. Then he looked at her face. She thought he was Babe.

He raised an eyebrow. He could correct her. He could tell her that he was Gaston Collins, the heir to the Collins banking empire, and that he was just here to fire his incompetent estate attorney.

But if he did that, she would apologize and leave.

"Please," Gaston said. His voice was deep, a smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He took her hand. His grip was warm, firm, and dry. "Let's skip the formalities."

He decided in that split second. If being 'Babe' got him a conversation, he would be Babe.

They sat at the mahogany table. Jocelyn slid a blue folder across the surface.

"My proposal," she said. Her voice was steady, but he saw the pulse jumping in her neck. "One year. Strictly platonic. Separation of assets."

Gaston opened the folder. The header read Marriage Contract.

He fought the urge to smile. She wanted a business deal. He could work with that.

"I need access to my trust fund," Jocelyn explained, her tone blunt. "And you need... respectability? Or a cover?"

She glanced at him, her eyes searching his face. She was trying to be polite about the rumors. She thought he was gay. She thought he needed a woman to parade around to appease a conservative family.

"A cover," Gaston agreed, playing along. He leaned back in the chair, studying her. "My family is... demanding."

"I don't require love," Jocelyn added. Her voice wavered on the word love, a crack in her armor. "Just a signature."

Gaston looked at her. He saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for an impact. Someone had hurt her. Badly.

He uncapped a fountain pen from his pocket. It was a Montblanc, heavy and black.

"Done," he said.

Jocelyn blinked, stunned. "You haven't discussed the fee. Or the terms."

"I don't need your money, Ms. Wolfe." Gaston signed the paper with a flourish. He made the signature illegible, a sharp, jagged scrawl that could be anything.

He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "We go to City Hall now."

Jocelyn stared at him. "Right now?"

"Unless you want to wait?" He challenged her, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "I assume time is of the essence."

Jocelyn grabbed her purse. "Let's go."

They exited the building into the biting New York wind. A black town car was idling at the curb.

The driver, a man named Henri who had been with the Collins family for thirty years, stepped out and opened the rear door. He looked at Gaston, then at Jocelyn, confusion flickering across his face.

Gaston shot him a look. A sharp, warning glance. Don't speak.

He gestured for Jocelyn to enter first.

Jocelyn slid onto the leather seat. The interior smelled of sandalwood and expensive conditioner. It didn't smell like stale cigarettes or cheap cologne, which is what she imagined Babe Vincent would smell like.

He's surprisingly gentlemanly for a degenerate playboy, she thought.

Gaston slid in beside her. The door clicked shut, sealing them in.

"City Hall, Henri," Gaston said.

The car merged smoothly into the chaotic morning traffic of Manhattan, carrying them toward a binding legal union built entirely on a lie.