The Billionaire’s Contract: Revenge On My Ex

I was a top-tier model with a fiancé I trusted to manage every cent I earned. I thought we were building a life together until a blown fuse at the studio sent me home twenty minutes early. The silence of the penthouse was broken by a trail of clothes: Haywood’s silk tie, then a red-soled stiletto that belonged to Brandy, the girl I had mentored like a sister. Through the bedroom door, I watched the man I loved tell his mistress that I was "yesterday's news" while they tangled in the sheets I had picked out six months ago. I didn't scream; I just turned to leave, but the betrayal went deeper than the bedroom. When I checked my banking app, my balance was exactly $12.45. Haywood had liquidated every holding account and savings entry I owned, using a "tax strategy" he’d convinced me of to steal my entire past. Within hours, the man who robbed me was planting stories in the press, claiming I was having a drug-fueled breakdown. He wanted me penniless, homeless, and discredited so no one would believe the truth. He even tried to force me into a "rehab" facility to silence me forever while he promoted his pregnant mistress. I stood on a New York curb with nothing left but a desperate, insane idea born from a headline on my phone. Isham Rhodes, the most ruthless CEO in the city, needed a wife by thirty to keep his empire, and I needed a shield to survive mine. "Mr. Rhodes, I hear you need a puppet," I said, intercepting him in the rain outside City Hall. "I don't want your love. I want a legal document that makes me untouchable." He didn't ask for a romance; he asked for my ID. Now, with a billionaire’s black card in my pocket and a marriage certificate in my hand, I’m going back to the agency to take back everything they stole. The war has just begun.

Chapters

Chapter 7

"I booked a table at DeFay's," Haywood's text read. "Lunch before the conference. A peace offering."

It was a power move. He wanted to make sure she was under his thumb before she stepped in front of the cameras.

Hester walked into the restaurant at 12:30 PM. It was high-end, filled with socialites and business tycoons. Haywood was already seated at a corner booth, waving at her. He stood up to hug her, but she turned slightly so his hands landed on her shoulders.

"You look... tired," he said, scanning her face. "Good. It sells the narrative."

They sat down. A waiter appeared immediately.

"I already ordered for you," Haywood said, smiling benevolently. "The Salmon with dill sauce. I know you're watching your weight."

Hester froze. She stared at him. "I'm allergic to salmon, Haywood. My throat closes up. We went to the ER three years ago because of it."

Haywood waved a dismissive hand. "I know, but it's the chef's special, and Mr. Laurent from Vogue is at the next table. Just have a small bite for appearances. Don't be dramatic. We need to look united."

Before Hester could respond, the Executive Chef appeared at the table. He was a large man with a stern face.

"Mr. Mckee," the Chef said, bowing slightly. "Apologies, but we ran out of the salmon moments ago."

Haywood frowned. "This is a Michelin star restaurant. How do you run out of fish?"

"However," the Chef continued, ignoring him and turning to Hester. "For Ms. Irwin, we have prepared the Wagyu Beef and White Truffle Risotto."

He placed the plate in front of her. The smell was intoxicating-earthy truffle, rich butter. It was her absolute favorite dish. It cost $400 a plate.

"I didn't order that," Haywood snapped. "Who pays for this?"

"Compliments of the house," the Chef said smoothly. "And a patron who wishes to remain anonymous."

A sommelier stepped forward and poured a glass of red wine for Hester. "Château Margaux, 1998. Your birth year, Madame."

Hester's heart skipped a beat. She looked around the room. In the far corner, near the kitchen entrance, she saw Silas. He nodded once, barely perceptible, then vanished.

Isham was watching. He wasn't here, but his reach was.

Haywood laughed nervously. "Ah, I must have mentioned it to my assistant to call ahead. See? I take care of you."

He was lying. He was stealing credit for another man's gesture because his ego couldn't handle not being the provider.

Hester picked up her fork. She cut into the steak. It was rare, red juice flowing onto the white risotto. She took a bite. It melted on her tongue.

She looked at Haywood. He was eating a bread roll, talking with his mouth full about stock prices and how the "apology" would boost engagement. He looked small. He looked cheap.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

Eat. You need strength to destroy him.

Hester chewed slowly, savoring the truffle. The fear that had been gripping her stomach all morning began to dissipate, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

Haywood slid a piece of paper across the table. "Here's the script. Memorize it. Don't improvise."

Hester took the paper. She didn't read it. She folded it and put it in her purse.

"Don't worry, Haywood," she said, taking a sip of the 1998 vintage. "I'll say exactly what needs to be said."

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