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 8

"Mr. Eaton requests your presence at dinner," Mrs. Sterling said through the door.

It wasn't a request. It was a summons.

Ainsley went downstairs in the bathrobe. She didn't have anything else, and she was past the point of caring about etiquette.

The dining room was a cavern. A long mahogany table stretched out under a crystal chandelier.

Carson sat at the head. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his dark glasses reflecting the candlelight.

There were only two settings. No Victoria. No Kirstie.

Ainsley sat down at his right. The scrape of the chair was loud.

They ate in silence for five minutes. The only sound was the clink of silver against china.

"Preston is bringing a new agreement tomorrow," Carson said. He didn't stop cutting his steak.

"I told you," Ainsley said, stabbing a potato. "I'm not signing."

He turned his face toward Ainsley. "If you don't sign, I will cut off every credit card. I will freeze your accounts. You will be destitute."

Ainsley shrugged, then remembered he couldn't see it. "I'm used to being broke. I was a student on a scholarship. I can survive on ramen."

Carson paused. "You don't remember the shopping sprees? The jewelry?"

"No."

"Convenient."

"Why do you hate me, Carson?" Ainsley asked. "Really? Besides what Kirstie whispers in your ear."

"Because you sold me out," he said. His voice was ice. "You sold my location to the paparazzi the day I came home from the surgery. You put a price tag on my blindness."

"That doesn't make sense," Ainsley said. "If I married you for money, why would I risk the golden goose for a tabloid payout? How much does a photo go for? Five grand? Being Mrs. Eaton is worth millions. It's bad business."

Carson stopped chewing. He looked... confused.

He reached for his wine glass.

The server had placed it about two inches further right than usual.

His hand was moving fast. He was going to knock it over. Red wine on a white tablecloth. A mess. Humiliation.

Without thinking, Ainsley reached out.

She didn't grab the glass. Her hand moved to intercept his, her fingers gently brushing the back of his hand just before he made contact with the glass.

His fingers brushed hers.

The contact was electric. A jolt went up her arm.

Carson recoiled as if Ainsley had burned him. He pulled his hand back, his face flushing.

"Careful," Ainsley said quietly. "Your glass is just to your right."

Carson froze. The air in the room grew heavy.

"To my right," he repeated. His voice was flat, analytical.

Ainsley stared at her hand. "Yes. A little further."

He reached out again, slowly this time, his fingers finding the stem perfectly.

He turned his face toward Ainsley again. He looked like he was trying to see through the darkness.

"Kirstie said you were clumsy," he murmured. "Careless."

"Maybe Kirstie is wrong," Ainsley said. "About a lot of things."

He didn't answer. He found the glass, took a sip, and set it down perfectly.

"Finish your dinner," he said. But the anger was gone from his voice. Replaced by something else. Curiosity.

Ainsley went back to her room that night with her mind racing.

She knelt on the floor and pulled a dusty suitcase from under the bed. It was old. It had a sticker on it that said Queens.

She opened it. Inside were clothes that looked like hers-jeans, hoodies. And at the bottom, a leather-bound journal.

It was locked.

Continue to next part