My Wife Faked Her Death to Marry the Billionaire

The rain struck the windshield like shattering glass, heavy and relentless. Adrian Cole squinted through the blur, his fingers tight around the steering wheel, the wipers thrashing against the torrent. The silence inside the car was louder than the storm outside. He'd forgotten to turn on the radio, too caught up in his thoughts-too busy wondering if the night before had been their final argument or just another crack in the porcelain shell of their fragile marriage.

Vivian hadn't come to bed. She hadn't even looked at him as he stood in the doorway of the study, her face buried in a glowing laptop screen, her mouth tight and unreadable. He had said her name once, then again. No answer. The only sound was the click of keys and the rustle of rain outside.

Now, the coffee he held in a paper cup was growing cold, forgotten in the cupholder. He pulled into the gas station near Hudson Avenue, the one Vivian always stopped at on her way to her office, the same one she texted him from just an hour ago: "Need gas. Car's almost dead." He hadn't responded. His pride had been louder than concern.

Smoke curled on the horizon. Not thick-but black, curling like a serpent against the grey sky. Adrian frowned.

He parked awkwardly and stepped out, the wind whipping his coat open. A small crowd had gathered near the pump station at the far end. Something about the crowd felt unnatural. No shouting. Just stunned stillness. A wall of silence broken only by the sound of sirens growing louder.

Adrian pushed past a man clutching a child. His eyes locked on the twisted metal husk in the center of the chaos. A car-his wife's car. Her blue Camry. The front had melted inward like a tin can crushed underfoot. Fire licked from the engine, hissing as it met puddles of rain. A firefighter doused it with foam. Another was pulling a sheet over something in the front seat.

"No," Adrian said, but it was only breath. His knees buckled before he could feel the weight of his body.

Someone caught him under the arms.

"Sir, are you alright?"

He looked up into a blur of yellow raincoats, flashing lights, and a woman's voice on the radio saying something about a fatality.

He stumbled forward, drawn by something primal. The sheet slipped, revealing a blackened hand still clutching the steering wheel. There was no ring on the finger. No way to tell.

"Is she... is there... any identification?" he asked hoarsely.

A paramedic gave him a sympathetic glance. "We found a purse in the passenger seat. License inside. Vivian Cole."

Adrian's world tilted sideways. The rain no longer mattered. The crowd no longer existed. All he could see was her last glance, her silence the night before, the way she hadn't turned to say goodbye that morning.

Three days later, the urn sat on the mantel like a silent sentinel.

The apartment was too quiet now. The silence scraped his ears like sandpaper. Adrian moved through rooms like a ghost, untouched by time. He didn't eat. Barely slept. Every corner held a memory. The scent of her perfume still clung to the closet-bergamot and something dark beneath. Velvet and smoke.

Her funeral had been brief. Closed-casket. No one questioned it. The fire had done its job.

But something gnawed at him. An itch behind his thoughts. Not just grief-something else. Doubt.

Vivian was meticulous. She hated messes. Hated rushing. But that morning she'd sent a text saying she was low on gas-why? She always filled the tank on Sundays. Always.

Adrian rose from the couch and opened the drawer of her desk. Bills, pens, an old iPod. Nothing unusual. Then he saw it-a second phone, one he didn't recognize.

It was off. He powered it on, hands trembling.

No password.

His breath caught. A string of messages lit up the screen. All from one number. No name.

"Hotel ready. You'll have to move fast."

"Wolfe wants discretion. I handled it."

"The car is set."

Adrian dropped the phone like it burned him.

Wolfe. The name stabbed into his memory. Damien Wolfe. Billionaire. Tech genius. The man Vivian used to write about with a strange flicker in her voice. Not admiration. Not exactly. Something colder.

His fingers closed around the phone again. He opened the photo gallery. A single image.

Vivian. Standing on a balcony. Not their apartment. She was in a sleek dress, gold hoop earrings catching the light, smiling in a way he hadn't seen in months. Behind her, a city skyline gleamed under a sunset.

She was alive.

The next hour was a blur of adrenaline and disbelief. Adrian stared at the photo again, memorizing every detail-the buildings behind her, the angle of the shadows, the type of railing. He Googled Damien Wolfe's residence and found a penthouse suite in Tribeca with the same balcony structure. He knew what he had to do.

He took the train into the city, sitting stiffly between a sleeping teenager and a man with headphones. The city pulsed with life-honking horns, flashing lights, voices echoing between towers. But Adrian moved like a man possessed.

When he reached the building, he waited across the street, eyes fixed on the entrance. Sleek black cars came and went. A doorman in a tailored coat held the door for a laughing couple. He looked up, to the 23rd floor.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

There. On the balcony.

Her.

Vivian stepped out, hair swept back, drink in hand. She leaned on the railing, smiling at someone inside. Then Damien Wolfe appeared-tall, confident, wearing a shirt that probably cost more than Adrian's rent. He touched Vivian's arm. She didn't flinch. She laughed.

Adrian's world shattered again-but this time it wasn't sorrow. It was rage.

He didn't sleep that night.

He watched. He waited.

He returned every evening.

For three days, he mapped the routines. Wolfe left at 8 a.m. in a black car. Vivian stayed inside. Sometimes she went to the rooftop pool, reading. Sometimes she met with others-men in suits, women in heels. Always smiling. Always perfect.

On the fourth night, he broke in.

Not through the lobby-too guarded. He scaled the fire escape of the neighboring building and leapt the three-foot gap onto Wolfe's terrace. His heart thundered. One wrong step and he'd fall twenty-three stories.

The balcony doors were closed-but not locked.

He slid them open and stepped inside.

Marble floors. Crystal vases. A massive painting of a fox hunt above the fireplace. Silence.

Then-footsteps.

He ducked behind a tall potted plant, breathing through his teeth.

Vivian walked into the living room, barefoot, humming.

He stepped out slowly.

"Vivian."

She froze.

The glass in her hand fell and shattered.

Her eyes met his-and for a moment, they were just husband and wife again. The world held its breath.

Then she ran.

He caught her before she reached the hall.

"Let me go!" she screamed, pounding his chest.

"What did you do, Vivian?! You faked your death! Why?"

Her sobs cracked her voice. "You weren't supposed to come. You weren't supposed to find me."

"You think I'd just accept your ashes and move on?" he spat.

"I did it to survive!" she shouted back. "I owed people. Wolfe offered a way out."

"You married him?" Adrian asked, his voice breaking.

"No. Not yet." Her face twisted. "But I had to disappear. He made it possible."

"Did he kill that woman in the car?" Adrian's voice was low, dangerous.

Vivian shook her head. "No. She volunteered. She was paid. She-" Her eyes darted past him. "Adrian, run."

"What-"

A door slammed.

Two men in suits were already in the room.

Adrian turned just in time to catch a punch to the ribs. He went down, gasping. Another blow to the jaw.

Vivian screamed, grabbing a lamp and smashing it across one attacker's head.

Adrian rolled, reached for the glass shard on the floor, and slashed wildly. Blood. A scream.

The second man lunged. Adrian drove the shard into his thigh.

Sirens wailed outside.

Vivian grabbed Adrian's hand.

"We have to go. Now!"

They ran.

Through the balcony.

Across the narrow ledge.

Into the fire escape shadows of the city.