THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECOND WIFE

"You know that rent is to be paid in just two days, right?"

I fixated on the flickering cursor on my laptop, attempting to drown out the sound of my roommate's voice.

"Morgan," she called, her tone climbing like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew, stretching my last name like a rubber band about to snap.

Inhaled deeply, bracing myself. "Yes. I know."

"Then why are you rewriting the same sentence for the fourth time?"

"Because it sounds like crap," I muttered.

"You're not Hemingway. Hit submit and pray."

I blinked hard and pressed the spacebar a few times. The freelance piece I'd promised an editor two weeks ago still looked like a high school essay. No flow. No soul. No chance of being paid.

"I have thirty-two dollars in my account," I said.

"Twelve," she corrected. "You Venmo'd me for coffee yesterday."

I closed the laptop. "Right."

Ashley tossed herself on the couch across from me. "Ivy, we need to talk options. That rich-people dating site you signed up for? Maybe it's time to use it."

"I will not."

She looked at me, her expression sullen "You said if you hit rock bottom-"

"I'm not dating a millionaire for rent money."

"He's a billionaire, actually."

I groaned. "God. You're the devil."

Ashley smirked. "A broke devil with a good memory. He dropped a message again, didn't he?"

I did not want to dwell on it. The app was meant to be a joke. A game. Swipe, screenshot, laugh. But he hadn't been like the others. No shirtless gym selfies. No yachts. No weird age-gap comments.

His profile just said: Nicholas. 38. CEO. Looking for someone who knows how to keep a secret.

It should have been a red flag. But it intrigued me instead.

"I deleted the app," I said.

"You're lying."

"I archived the app."

Ashley smiled like she won the lottery. "So message him."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to sell myself."

"You wouldn't be selling yourself. You'd be... temporarily leasing your company."

I laughed despite myself. "You're so gross."

She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Ivy, I know you. You're about to get evicted. You're eating saltines for dinner. You haven't called your mom in two weeks because you're too proud to ask for help. And here you are, being all noble, while the universe is offering you a lifeline in the form of a sexy mysterious billionaire."

"You don't know that he's sexy."

Ashley opened her phone. "Let's check."

"No. Don't-"

Too late. She pulled up his profile like a weapon. And there it was. That same photo I hadn't been able to forget.

Dark suit. Crisp tie. Sharp jawline. Cold gray eyes. No smile.

He looked... expensive.

"Yeah," Ashley said slowly, studying the photo. "That man has definitely committed tax fraud. And maybe a little murder. But in a hot way."

I reached for her phone and scrolled.

There was a message.

Nicholas Thorne: I'd like to meet. Discretion matters. No expectations. Just time.

"That's stalking, right?" I said, even as my thumb hesitated over the reply button.

Ashley shrugged. "Depends on what 'time' means."

I stared at the screen. And then I typed two words.

Where and when?

---

I wore black. Simple dress. No heels. I wasn't the type to wear makeup, it maked me look like I hadn't slept for days.

He sent the location: Glasshouse. I know the place, , a rooftop bar in Midtown that served twelve-dollar water.

I walked in five minutes before and handed the hostess his name.

"This way," she said with a fake smile. I knew better.

He was already there.

Nicholas Thorne.

Exactly like the picture. Only worse. Or better. Depending on how you measure intensity.

He stood as I approached the table.

"Ivy Morgan."

His voice was low. Controlled. Like every statement he said had been rehearsed and edited for effect.

"Wow, you are real," I said before I could stop myself.

He smirked. Not a smile. Not quite. "So are you."

He could take a joke, Thank heavens

We sat. A waiter hovered, then vanished without taking our order.

"I don't usually do this," I said, my fingers locking under the table.

"Neither do I."

"Then what do you usually do?"

"I usually pay people to solve my problems."

"And I'm a problem now?"

"You might be the solution."

I blinked. "Okay. You're going to have to be precise. Because I thought this was a date, and now it sounds like a merger."

He rested back, folding his hands. "I need a wife."

I laughed. Then saw his expression. And stopped. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"You need a wife."

"Correct."

"Like, for paperwork?"

"Like for my daughter."

That shut me up.

He continued. "Her name is Lena. She's five. Her grandparents are suing for custody. They believe I'm emotionally unfit. That I don't provide a stable environment."

"And your solution is to marry a stranger off a dating app?"

"My solution is to make my life appear stable. Traditional. Normal."

"And you think I look like stability?"

"You look honest. You have no ties. No scandal. No interest in my money. You would sign a prenup. You'd be compensated generously. And you'd walk away after one year."

"You're offering me a contract marriage."

"Yes."

"Do I look like someone out of a K-drama to you?"

"I don't watch television."

I stared at him. He wasn't blinking. He wasn't joking.

"And if I said yes?" I asked, my voice low.

He didn't flinch. "You'd move in this weekend. Appear in a few photos. Attend a few events. Speak kindly to reporters. Smile. Occasionally hold my hand in public."

"And in private?"

"Nothing will be expected of you."

"And the money?"

"A hundred thousand now. Another hundred when the divorce is finalized. More if you choose to extend the arrangement."

I tried to keep breathing.

That amount of money would wipe out my debts. Let me start over. Maybe even finish the book I'd been trying to write since college.

"Why me?" I asked. "Why not someone in your circle? Someone richer. Prettier. Easier to control."

He leaned forward then. And for the first time, his expression changed.

"You're not afraid of me."

I swallowed hard. "Should I be?"

Just as he wanted to answer, his phone rang. He glanced at it and went still.

"Problem?" I asked.

He looked up, and something in his face had changes. A tension. A darkness.

"My daughter's gone," he said quietly.

"Gone?"

"She ran away from the nanny. She's missing."

And just like that, I was thrown into another world.