The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

I woke up in a sterile hospital room with a throat like sandpaper and eyelids that felt sewn shut. I expected to see the water-stained ceiling of my tiny Queens apartment, but instead, I found myself tethered to expensive machines in a room smelling of funeral lilies. The nurse didn't call me Ainsley Bentley; she called me Mrs. Eaton, and she told me the year was 2024. Before I could process the four-year gap in my memory, the Eaton matriarch stormed in, calling me a "little actress" and throwing a newspaper at my legs. The headline screamed that I was a scandalous commoner wife who had just caused a DUI crash. Within hours, a ruthless lawyer named Preston was at my bedside, demanding I sign a separation agreement that stripped me of everything. He showed me grainy photos of me with another man, accusing me of infidelity and "endangering the family reputation." My so-called best friend, Kirstie, even tried to bribe me with fifty thousand dollars to flee to Paris, whispering that my husband was an unstable monster who would destroy me. When I finally confronted my husband Carson, the billionaire "Blind Prophet of Wall Street," he looked at me with chilling indifference through his dark glasses. He was convinced I had sold his location to the paparazzi for a tabloid payout, betraying him at his most vulnerable moment. I didn't understand any of it. I didn't remember the marriage, the scandals, or the luxury. But when I looked in the mirror, I found a jagged, violent scar running down my back—a "war wound" that didn't belong to a yoga instructor. I realized I knew how to cite matrimonial law by heart and how to neutralize a physical threat with a single move. "I'm staying," I told the family of sharks as I stood my ground in their massive estate. I refused to sign the papers. Instead, I found a micro SD card hidden in a hollowed-out lipstick and realized I wasn't just a victim of a crash. I was a variable they hadn't accounted for, and I was going to find out exactly who I was before they could finish what they started.

Chapters

Chapter 3

By the afternoon, the smell of antiseptic was replaced by the overwhelming scent of lilies.

The door opened, and a woman walked in who looked like she had been airbrushed into existence. She wore a beige cashmere set that screamed 'quiet luxury' and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Annie, who had been sitting by Ainsley's bed, stood up abruptly. "I... I'm going to get coffee." She practically ran out of the room.

The woman didn't even glance at her. She swept toward Ainsley, arms open.

"Ainsley! My poor, sweet darling!"

She hugged Ainsley. Her body was stiff, her perfume suffocating. Ainsley didn't hug back.

"I'm Kirstie," she said, pulling back and taking Ainsley's hand. Her palms were soft, uncalloused. "Your cousin. Your best friend."

"My best friend," Ainsley repeated, her voice flat.

"I came as soon as I heard," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "They're railroading you, Ainsley. Victoria is a witch. And Carson..." She sighed dramatically. "He's just so broken. He won't listen to reason."

She squeezed Ainsley's hand. "But you have me. I'm here to help you escape."

"Escape?"

"From this whole nightmare," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Preston is trying to bully you into signing away your rights for nothing. It's disgusting."

Ainsley pulled her hand away. "What do you suggest?"

"You need to fight back," Kirstie said quickly. "But not from here. You need to get away, build a war chest. You have friends who will help you." She reached into her purse and pulled out a check. "I scraped this together. It's my own money. Fifty thousand dollars. It's enough to get you to Paris. You can hire a lawyer from there, regroup."

Ainsley looked at the check. Fifty thousand. To a college student, it was a fortune. To an Eaton, it was lunch money. It was an insult wrapped in a rescue fantasy.

"Why do you want me to leave so badly?" Ainsley asked.

"Because I'm afraid for you," she whispered. "Carson is unstable. He's not the man you married. If you stay, he'll destroy you."

Ainsley studied her face. Her makeup was flawless, but there was a tightness around her mouth. A desperation.

"And Leo?" Ainsley asked, a calculated test.

Kirstie paused. Just for a fraction of a second. "Leo? Oh, sweetie. Let's focus on you right now. Getting you safe is the priority."

Rage, cold and sharp, spiked in Ainsley's chest. Kirstie dismissed the name of her own son as an inconvenience. No friend would do that.

Ainsley thought of Annie's fear. She thought of Preston's rush. And now this woman, trying to buy her off with pocket change and gaslighting.

Ainsley pushed the check back across the sheets.

"I'm not going to Paris," Ainsley said.

Kirstie's smile faltered. "What?"

"I'm going to the Hamptons. I'm going home."

"You can't," she snapped. Her voice lost its sugary coating. It was shrill now. "Carson will have you thrown out."

"Let him try."

"You're being greedy," Kirstie hissed. "Is that it? You want a bigger settlement?"

"I want the truth," Ainsley said. "And I don't think I'm getting it from you."

Kirstie stood up. She smoothed her cashmere sweater, her eyes cold. She leaned down, her lips close to Ainsley's ear.

"Julian is waiting for you," she whispered. "Don't disappoint him."

She turned and walked out, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the floor.

Ainsley shivered.

Annie came back in a moment later, holding two cold coffees. She looked around the room as if checking for landmines.

"Is she gone?"

"Yes," Ainsley said. "Annie, help me up."

"What? You can't. The doctor-"

"I don't care about the doctor," Ainsley said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The room spun, but she gritted her teeth. "Get my clothes. We're going to the Hamptons."

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