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 9

Ainsley tried to pry the lock open with a bobby pin, but it was intricate. Too secure for a diary.

She needed help.

She borrowed a phone from a maid who looked sympathetic and texted Annie.

Annie. I found a diary. It's locked.

The reply came three minutes later.

Preston fired me. But... check your lipstick. The Chanel Rouge. You used to tell me it was your 'lucky charm'. You never let anyone touch it.

Ainsley went to the vanity. There were dozens of lipsticks. But only one Chanel Rouge Noir. The case was scratched, the gold paint fading.

She picked it up. It felt heavier than the others.

She twisted the bottom. It didn't push the lipstick up. It clicked.

A false bottom popped open.

Inside was a micro SD card.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The key. This was the only way to access the ledger.

The door banged open.

Ainsley shoved the lipstick into her palm and hid her hand behind her back.

Kirstie marched in, flanked by two maids.

"Search the room," she commanded.

"What is this?" Ainsley asked, backing up against the dresser.

"My sapphire necklace is missing," Kirstie said. Her eyes were bright with malice. "I know you took it."

"I didn't take anything."

"Check the suitcase," Kirstie ordered the maids. They began dumping Ainsley's clothes onto the floor.

Kirstie walked toward Ainsley. "Give me the diary, Ainsley. And I'll call off the dogs."

She knew.

"I don't have a diary," Ainsley said.

"Liar." Kirstie lunged for Ainsley. She grabbed Ainsley's right arm, trying to pry her fist open.

"Let go!"

Kirstie dug her nails into Ainsley's skin. "Give it to me!"

Ainsley's body reacted before her brain did.

She didn't resist Kirstie's pull. Instead, she went with it, using Kirstie's own momentum to spin them around. As Kirstie stumbled forward, off-balance, Ainsley stuck her leg out. It was a simple, subtle trip, perfectly timed.

Kirstie screamed as she crashed to the floor, landing in a heap at Ainsley's feet.

Ainsley looked down at her, her expression one of wide-eyed shock and fear.

"You're hurting me!" Kirstie shrieked from the ground, clutching an ankle she'd twisted in the fall.

"I'm sorry! You grabbed me, I got scared, I pulled away!" Ainsley said, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean for you to fall!"

She shoved Kirstie away. Kirstie stumbled, clutching her wrist, staring at Ainsley in horror.

"What are you?" Kirstie whispered.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Carson stood in the doorway.

Kirstie immediately crumpled to the floor. "Carson! Help! She attacked me! She's crazy!"

Carson stood still. His nostrils flared slightly.

He smelled the room. He smelled the adrenaline. He smelled the sweat.

But mostly, he smelled the fear. And the fear was coming from Kirstie.

"Get out," Carson said.

"Carson, she stole-"

"I said get out!" His voice thundered.

Kirstie scrambled up, shooting Ainsley a look of pure hatred, and ran out. The maids followed.

Carson stayed. He turned his head toward Ainsley.

"There was a struggle," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Apparently," Ainsley said, her hand still clutching the lipstick.

He nodded once, slowly. Then he turned and left.

Ainsley looked at the lipstick in her hand. Who was she?

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