The Dying Billionaire's Secret Contract Wife

The crystal flute in Elsie Watkins' hand felt heavy, like a lead weight disguised as celebration. The bubbles in the champagne rose in a frantic, golden rush, mirroring the nausea that had been swirling in her stomach for the last ten minutes.

She stood in the center of the ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, a venue that smelled of expensive lilies and old money. It was her engagement party. It was supposed to be the happiest night of her life.

Her phone buzzed against her hip, hidden inside her beaded clutch.

It buzzed again. And again. A relentless, angry vibration that refused to be ignored.

Elsie forced a smile at a woman whose name she couldn't remember-some aunt of Jed's with too much powder on her face-and excused herself. She walked toward the ladies' room, her heels clicking a sharp, hollow rhythm on the marble floor.

Once inside the sanctuary of the restroom, the noise of the jazz band faded to a dull thrum. Elsie opened her clutch. Her screen was lit up with messages from Debbi.

DON'T OPEN IT.

ELSIE DO NOT CLICK THE LINK.

WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME.

Her thumb hovered over the most recent message. It was a link. No context, just a link sent from an unknown number that had also been copied to Debbi.

Elsie's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She knew. Somewhere in the deep, instinctual part of her brain, she already knew.

She tapped the link.

The video loaded with agonizing slowness on the hotel Wi-Fi. When it finally played, the sound was crisp. Too crisp.

It was a boat. The sun was shining. And there was Jed, her fiancé, the man who had proposed to her three months ago in Central Park. He was tangled in the limbs of a woman with chestnut hair. Elsie recognized the hair. It belonged to Sarah, her college roommate, one of the bridesmaids currently drinking open-bar mimosas in the other room.

Elsie didn't look away. She couldn't. She watched the way Jed's hand gripped the railing, the way he threw his head back. But it wasn't the sex that made the air leave her lungs. It was the conversation that followed.

The camera had been left recording, propped up on a towel. Jed was reaching for a beer.

"When are you going to dump her?" Sarah's voice was tinny, breathless.

"I can't yet," Jed said, cracking the can open. He sounded bored. "The Watkins stock transfer happens next quarter. I need that portfolio. Elsie is... she's fine. She's a boring, safe little girl. I just have to tolerate the missionary position for a few more months until the merger is solid."

Elsie stared at her reflection in the oversized mirror.

She looked perfect. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon. Her dress, a silk ivory slip that cost more than her first car, draped flawlessly over her frame.

But her eyes looked like broken glass.

"Boring," she whispered to the empty room. "Safe."

She turned off the phone. She didn't cry. The tears were there, burning behind her eyelids, but they felt frozen, stuck in a block of ice that had suddenly formed in her chest.

She washed her hands. She didn't know why. It felt like a necessary ritual, scrubbing away the invisible grime of the last three years. She dried them on a thick linen towel, took a deep breath that rattled in her throat, and walked back out.

The ballroom was louder now. Laughter peeled through the air. Jed was standing near the podium, holding a microphone, looking handsome and charming and utterly fraudulent. He spotted her and waved, flashing that boyish grin that had once made her knees weak.

"There she is," Jed announced, his voice amplified by the speakers. "The love of my life."

The crowd applauded.

Elsie walked toward him. She moved with a strange, fluid grace, like she was underwater. A waiter passed by with a tray of fresh drinks. Elsie reached out and took a glass of champagne. It was ice cold. Condensation slicked against her palm.

She reached the podium. Jed opened his arms to embrace her, leaning in for a kiss that would seal the performance.

"Elsie?" he whispered, sensing the stiffness in her body.

She didn't say a word. She just flicked her wrist.

The liquid amber arc was perfect. The champagne splashed directly into his open eyes, soaking his white dress shirt, dripping from his chin.

The room went dead silent. The jazz band stopped mid-note.

Jed sputtered, clawing at his stinging eyes. "What the hell-"

Elsie stepped up to the microphone. She didn't shout. She didn't scream. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, dead level.

"The engagement is off," she said. Her voice echoed off the high ceilings. "I've just forwarded a link to everyone in this room. I suggest you watch it. It pairs excellently with the appetizers."

She dropped the microphone. The thud was the loudest sound in the world.

She turned on her heel and walked away.

She could hear the murmurs starting, the sound of a hundred phones unlocking at once. She heard Jed shouting her name, his voice cracking with panic, but she didn't look back. She walked through the double doors, past the stunned doorman, and out into the humid New York night.

As soon as the heavy doors swung shut behind her, the adrenaline crashed.

Elsie stumbled, catching herself on a stone pillar. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps. She looked down at her hands; they were shaking so violently she could barely hold her clutch.

Her phone rang. It was her father.

She stared at the screen. Mitch Watkins.

She answered.

"What did you do?" His voice wasn't worried. It was furious. "I have investors calling me. You just humiliated Jed in front of half the board!"

"He was sleeping with Sarah," Elsie said, her voice trembling. "He was using me for the stock transfer."

"So what?" Mitch roared. "Men stray, Elsie! You turn a blind eye and you secure the deal! That merger was going to save this family from bankruptcy! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Elsie pulled the phone away from her ear. She looked at it as if it were a foreign object.

"I know exactly what I've done," she said. "I saved myself."

"You selfish little-"

She hung up. Then, with a thumb that felt numb, she blocked his number.

She hailed a cab. She didn't have anywhere else to go. Her apartment was technically in Jed's name. Her cards were linked to the family account.

"Brooklyn," she told the driver. "Make it fast."

Debbi's apartment was small, cluttered, and smelled of acrylic paint and takeout food. It was the best place on earth.

Elsie sat on the worn-out sofa, clutching a mug of whiskey that Debbi had shoved into her hands. She wasn't crying anymore. She was just staring at the wall, feeling the hollow ache in her chest where her future used to be.

"I checked your accounts," Debbi said softly, sitting on the floor with her iPad. "Your dad froze the secondary cards. And the joint account with Jed... he emptied it an hour ago."

Elsie let out a dry laugh. "Of course he did."

"You have forty-two dollars in your personal checking."

"I have a negative net worth if you count my student loans," Elsie corrected. "And Mom's house... the foreclosure notice came yesterday."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The rain had started outside, lashing against the windowpane.

"There is... something else," Debbi said hesitantly. She turned the iPad around.

On the screen was a financial news article. The headline was stark: HUNTER HEIR DIAGNOSED WITH TERMINAL HEART FAILURE. DYING WISH: A LEGACY.

Below it was a photo. Hardin Hunter.

Even in a grainy news photo, he was striking. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes that looked like they could cut glass. But in this photo, he looked pale. Ghostly.

"They are looking for a wife," Debbi said. "A contract marriage. The Hunter family needs a legitimate heir before he passes. The trust fund stipulates he has to be married to access the final tier of assets to leave to a child."

Elsie frowned. "Hardin Hunter? The recluse?"

"He has six months," Debbi said. "Maybe less. The doctors say his heart is functioning at fifteen percent."

"So they want a broodmare," Elsie said, disgusted. "Someone to marry a dying man and produce a baby via IVF?"

"The payout is ten million dollars upon his death," Debbi said quietly. "And a monthly stipend of fifty thousand while he's alive."

Elsie looked at the screen again. Ten million dollars. It was enough to save her mother's house. Enough to pay off her father's debts so he could never hold them over her again. Enough to disappear and never have to rely on a man like Jed Reeves ever again.

"It's selling myself," Elsie whispered.

"It's a business transaction," Debbi countered. "He's dying, El. You wouldn't have to... be with him. Not really. You'd just be a companion. A nurse with a ring."

Elsie closed her eyes. A memory flickered in the back of her mind. Seven years ago. A gala. Her mother had collapsed, her heart giving out. People had stood around, watching, holding their champagne glasses.

But a young man had rushed forward. He had loosened her mother's collar, shouted for a medic, held her hand until the ambulance came. He had been arrogant, rude to the bystanders, but gentle with her mother.

Hardin Hunter.

She hadn't seen him since. He had disappeared into the shadows of his family's empire.

Elsie opened her eyes. She looked at the forty-two dollars in her bank account. She thought about Jed's laugh in the video. She thought about her father's rage.

"Do you have the number?" Elsie asked.

Debbi blinked. "What?"

"The lawyer. For the Hunters. Do you have the number?"

Debbi scrolled down. "It's listed right here for 'inquiries'. Silas Vance."

Elsie took the iPad. Her fingers hovered over the digits.

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the window frames. It felt like a warning. Or maybe a starting gun.

She dialed.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Silas Vance speaking," a voice answered. It was deep, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"My name is Elsie Watkins," she said. Her voice didn't shake this time. "I saw the news. I'm calling about the position."

"The position?" Silas repeated, a hint of amusement in his tone. "You mean the wife?"

"I mean the deal," Elsie said. "I'm available. And I'm expensive."

"We've been waiting for a call like yours, Ms. Watkins," Silas said. "Mr. Hunter is... eager to settle his affairs."

"I bet he is," Elsie muttered.

"Can you be at the Hunter Tower in Manhattan at 8:00 AM?"

"I'll be there."

She hung up the phone. The whiskey burned in her throat. She looked at Debbi, who was staring at her with wide eyes.

"You're going to marry a dying billionaire," Debbi whispered.

"No," Elsie said, standing up and walking to the window to watch the rain drown the city. "I'm going to walk him to the grave. It's the only way to clear the ledger."