THE BILLIONAIRE'S HOUSEWIFE

ELIZA WHITMORE'S POV

"Your husband has a second bank account." I froze, my hand still holding tightly to the glass dish of funeral potatoes. Sister Jensen's voice was steady, almost too steady, like she had rehearsed the line on her drive over.

I didn't look at her right away. Instead I diverted my focus on the crusted layer of cheddar on the casserole, the way it bubbled and curled at the corners. Maybe if I stared long enough, she'd take it back. And say it was a slip if her tongue. That she meant to say something else, something entirely different from what she said earlier.

"He what?" My voice came out thinner than I meant it to.

She reached across the counter and touched my wrist. "Eliza, I'm sorry. I didn't want to be the one to say anything but I happened to see the statements. My son, the one who works in the bank, he recognized Mark's name. He wasn't supposed to say anything, but he thought you deserved to know."

I blinked. "A second account?" Still in shock. I and mark had a joint account. After marriage he forbade us having separate accounts. It's always been a joint account. So this sounds so ridiculous.

"It's in his name. Not joint. And it's not just one or two deposits. It's already reading in millions due to the fact he deposits Regularly."

I pulled my hand away and turned to the sink. My hands found the faucet and turned on the water out of instinct. I've really been a fool for the past five years. How did I not suspect? "You're sure it's him?" I find myself asking this question. Yes, I still find it hard to comprehend as to why he would open an account without informing me.

Her reflection hovered behind mine in the window above the sink. "Yes, Eliza. I'm sure."

I let the silence thicken between us. Outside, the trees were bare and rattling in the wind. Inside, my kitchen smelled of butter and cloves and the pine-scented cleaner I always used before Sunday dinners. Everything looked exactly the way it should. But my lungs wouldn't fill all the way.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Now sounding apologetic. "I can stay if you want."

I shook my head. "No. Thank you. I just need a minute."

She hesitated, like she didn't trust me to be alone, but eventually she left. The door closed with a quiet click, and then the house was mine again.

Except it wasn't mine. Not really. Not when everything inside it had been picked and placed by someone who might have been living two lives.

I didn't cry. I should have. That's what normal wives did when their entire foundation cracked wide open. But all I felt was this low, nauseating hum that started in my chest and crawled up into my ears.

Mark came home late, which is unusual. He said he'll he back early.

"It's past ten p.m." I blurted out as he stepped into the living room.

"Do you now time my movements? My car broke down."

"You should have told me. Maybe, I'll pick you up." I said, then he laughed.

"You realize the highway had been unsafe recently. Besides, I don't want to stress you." I didn't ask further. I just let him go inside and shower. Maybe sister Jensen wasn't sure of what she said earlier.

"No kiss?" I asked before he was out of sight. He sluggishly walked up to me and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. I saw it, a lipstick stain. And a feminine perfume fragrance mixed with his. "Since when did you start using feminine perfumes? And that isn't mine. It's vanilla and I love coconut." I interrogated as he smiled.

" You must be really tired Eliza. Before my car broke down I went to the supermarket and wanted to get you a new perfume. But I didn't know of you'll like it so, I sprayed a pint to be sure you like the fragrance." Seeing how bold he stood lying broke me the more. Looks like sister Jensen was right. Mark must have taken me for a fool. As he left, I checked my messages for a debit alert from the joint account found none. Then it dawned on me. Jensen said nothing but the truth.

The next morning, I packed a bag. And by evening, I was standing outside my sister's house, shivering in a cardigan that wasn't nearly warm enough for December.

"What do you mean you applied for a job?" Megan sat on the floor of her living room, surrounded by Lego bricks and goldfish crackers. Her toddler screamed something unintelligible and launched a sippy cup at the couch.

I adjusted the scarf around my neck and tried not to flinch when the cup landed near my feet. "It's part-time. Remote. I just need something for now. Until I figure out what's next."

"You've never had a job in your life, Eliza." She stated. Giving me a suspicious look.

"That's not true. I helped in the school library all through high school."

Megan gave me a flat look. "Fifteen years ago. Volunteering doesn't count. Do you even have a resume?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a stapled packet. "I do now."

She took it, scanned it, then raised her brows. "You listed 'Primary President' under leadership experience?" She furrowed her brows. My resume must look like a joke to her.

"I managed thirty women and ran monthly meetings. That counts."

Megan didn't laugh, which I appreciated more than she knew. She flipped to the second page. "Blackwell Enterprises?"

I nodded, my heart doing that annoying flutter thing it had started doing every time I thought about the application.

"As in Dominic Blackwell?" she asked in shock, raising her eyebrows.

I blinked. "You know him?"

"Everyone knows him. He's like the Elon Musk of Manhattan, except hotter and probably more evil. You applied to be his assistant?"

"Administrative coordinator." I corrected.

"Same thing."

I picked up a handful of Legos and began arranging them into color-coded piles. "The listing said remote. Flexible hours. High pay. I figured I'd never hear back."

Megan opened her mouth, closed it again, then looked down at the resume. "Well. I hate to break it to you, but you heard back."

I stilled. "What?"

She handed me her phone. "Check your email."

I tapped the screen, pulled up my inbox, and stared. There it was. Blackwell Enterprises. Subject line: Interview Invitation – Eliza Whitmore

By the time I made it to the airport, I had talked myself out of going at least four times.

It didn't matter that they had sent a ticket. Or that the assistant had scheduled everything down to the driver picking me up from the terminal. I was a housewife from Utah with five kids and a ruined marriage. I had no business flying to New York City to meet a billionaire.

But I went anyway. Maybe it was pride. Maybe desperation. Or maybe I just wanted to sit across from someone who had built something from nothing. Someone who didn't pretend.

The elevator doors opened into a space that didn't look like an office. It looked like an art museum. White walls. Sleek glass panels. A fireplace built directly into black stone.

And then he walked in. Dominic Blackwell. The man himself. He wore a black suit, no tie, top button undone. His jaw looked like it had been carved from anger and old money. His eyes were unreadable, like he'd learned a long time ago how to bury emotion under layers of polish and power.

"Eliza Whitmore." His voice was deep and smooth, and I hated that it sent a chill up my spine.

"That's me." I said trying my best to stand upright.

He extended a hand. "I appreciate you flying in."

I took it. His grip was firm, warm, and completely in control. I wore a smile. Maybe, this is it. This is my new door being opened.

"You've never worked in a corporate environment," he said, sitting across from me in a chair that looked far too modern to be comfortable.

"No," I replied, folding my hands in my lap. Trying best to hide the fact that I'm nervous.

"You have five children." He raised his brow. I'm struggling to keep an upright posture.

"Yes."

"You listed organizing a ward Christmas program as a logistics skill."

I smiled, just a little. "Have you ever tried coordinating seventy-five toddlers with no budget and thirty overbearing mothers?" I asked trying to put him at an edge. That was really a lot.

His mouth twitched. "Fair point."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'll be blunt, Eliza. I don't hire people like you." I flinched. I had been optimistic through out my journey here. I never expected this ending.

I nodded. "Then why did you fly me out?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.

"Because I was curious. And because sometimes, I make exceptions." That was a hope indeed. Maybe I'll cling unto this hope.

I met his gaze. "And are you going to make one now?" I asked clinging unto my new found hope.

He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the skyline. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "The job isn't remote. Not anymore. My last coordinator left abruptly. I need someone I can trust in-house. For now." Did he just say in-house. How would I move my kids? How would they survive without me?

My stomach twisted. "You want me to move here." I asked, my mind thinking of how I'll move my kids. They're probably with my sister.

"Temporarily. I'll cover accommodations. A suite in the building. You can bring your children later if it works out. You'll be paid well. Very well." I heaved a sigh of relief. That was really considerate. Like he read my mind.

I stood too. "And if I say no?"

"Then you get back on a plane and we part ways. No hard feelings."

"And if I say yes?" He turned to face me, his expression unreadable.

"Then your life changes."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, frowned, then held it out to me. "It's for you."

I frowned. "For me?"

He nodded.

I took the phone, confused, and pressed it to my ear.

"Eliza?" The voice on the other end was ragged and angry. "It's Mark. What the hell are you doing in New York?" he shouted over the phone. I was literally finding a better life. At least one quiet and free from a liar and cheat. One who uses me for himself. One who takes me for a fool. I wouldn't want my kids grow up in such vicinity. So best put, I'm here for a better life. One basically without you.

DOMINIC BLACKWELL'S POV

She held the phone like it burned. I almost told her to drop it. But instead, I watched. Her smiley face turned all irritated at the sound of his voice.

"Eliza?" The man's voice was harsh on the other end. Possessive and also Loud. "What the hell are you doing in New York?" She flinched, but not visibly enough for most people to catch it. I noticed the subtle tightening of her jaw, the shift of her shoulders. Yet it was controlled and at same time also calm. But that flash in her eyes told me everything I needed to know.

"You called my potential employer," she said, her tone perfectly flat.

"You left without telling me where you were going. You took the kids and vanished."

"I didn't vanish, Mark. I filed a custody petition. You were served. You just didn't read it."

"You filed? Are you insane?"

"You emptied the savings account. Lied to our bishop. And according to your own sister, you've been paying for a condo in Nevada under a different name."

Silence. Then the unmistakable sound of anger building through clenched teeth. "You think running to some billionaire is going to save you?"

"I think being in New York gives me a chance to build a life outside of yours."

"Put him on the phone."

"No." She shouted, tightening her grip on the phone

"Eliza, So my sister advised you to do this? You've changed a lot Eliza"

She handed the phone back to me without looking at me. "I'm done talking." She blurted out.

I took it, held it to my ear. "Dominic Blackwell speaking."

"You're harboring my wife."

I let the silence hang for a beat before I answered. "That's a bold accusation, considering she doesn't seem too eager to go home."

"She's brainwashed." He shouted as I shifted the phone meters from my ear

"She sounds lucid to me."

"You have no idea who she is. She's not cut out for this."

"Maybe," I said. "But that's not your call anymore."

"You think you can steal her and turn her into one of your Manhattan pets? You'll ruin her."

That made me smile. "You already did that Mark."

I hung up.

She sat across from me again, expression unreadable. She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them like they held answers she wasn't sure she wanted.

"I didn't know he had your number," she said.

"I didn't either." I said glancing at her then her resume.

"I'm sorry." She must have been feeling guilty. How did she cope with that scum of a husband she has?

"I'm not." That made her look up. "I wanted to see how you'd handle him," I said. "Now I know."

She stared at me. "And what does that tell you?"

"That you have more backbone than most of my board members."

She didn't smile, but something softened in her eyes. "He'll call again."

"Let him call."

"You don't mind being dragged into someone else's marital mess?"

I poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table and handed it to her. "I invest in chaos for a living."

She accepted the glass but didn't drink from it. "This is real, Dominic. It's not one of your high-risk ventures."

"I know. That's why it interests me."

She shook her head, almost amused. "You're impossible."

I leaned back in my chair and studied her. "You said you want to rebuild. Start over. That requires two things."

She waited.

"Money and most importantly, distance. I can give you both." Her eyes suddenly lit up. I just smiled.

"And what do you want in return?" Her brows furrowed, I didn't answer right away.

Most women around me came with agendas, ambition, and Sex. Eliza Whitmore came with none of that. She wore no makeup, traveled with one bag, and looked at me like she didn't care whether I thought she was beautiful. That made her dangerous.

"I want someone who doesn't flinch," I said finally. "I want someone I can trust in a room full of liars. And I want to know why someone like you walked away from a life designed to keep you in it." My gaze fixated on her, she didn't flinch.

"You think it was designed to keep me?" She asked with a tone of sarcasm.

"Five kids. No job. Isolated from the outside world. That wasn't an accident." I said, stating her earlier predicament.

"I believed in it," she said Calmly.

"And now?"

She looked down again. "I still believe but just not in him."

I leaned forward. "So believe in something else. Like yourself." I asked trying to be clear.

"That sounds like a therapy quote on Instagram." She said then laughed.

"Maybe. But it's still true." At some point, your biggest catalyst turns out to be yourself. Every successful person beloved in their selves even when they sounded ridiculous.

She sighed and set the glass down. "If I say yes to this job, I need to know something." She asked further.

"Go ahead."

"Are you going to try and sleep with me?" I blinked twice. That was not what I expected. She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just sat there like a woman who had been underestimated her entire life and was finally done playing polite.

"No," I said. "Not unless you want me to."

Her expression didn't change. "Good."

"But I'm not going to pretend I don't find you interesting." I stated clarifying her.

"You don't know me."

"I've met enough people to know who's real and who's not. You're real." She gave off a wry smile and nodded.

She exhaled slowly. "I'll take the job. On a trial basis."

"You'll stay here in the building." Her eyes shone in surprise

"Temporarily." I said for clarity purpose. "I'll have legal draw up a housing agreement. And I'll increase your initial salary to cover the transition."

"I'm not a charity case." She stated bluntly.

"This isn't charity. This is investment." I said correcting her. If it's one thing I learnt from my dad is investing in people. So far, they've brought most the revenue. Who said broken crayons don't colour then come to Blackwell Enterprise.

"In what?" She asked as her eyes met mine.

"You." I said bluntly, That shut her up. I stood and held out a hand. "You're hired." She took it. Her grip was firm, steady and also very warm.

Later that evening, I sat in my office on the top floor and reviewed the day's briefings, contracts and deadlines. A merger I was pretending not to care about.

But my attention kept drifting back to the security feed in the lower corner of my screen.

Eliza, standing in the guest suite hallway, talking on the phone with one of her children. Her voice was too low for the feed to catch, her expression too full for me to ignore.

This woman had been trained to hold it all together. To smile through suffocation. To sacrifice herself on a daily altar built from domestic perfection. And yet here she was. In my penthouse. Holding her own.

I hadn't planned on hiring her. I didn't need to. But something about the way she looked at me with that level, her grounded gaze made me curious in a way I hadn't been in a long time.

I was still watching the feed when my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I raised my brows. Then I answered. "Blackwell."

"You don't know what you're doing," the voice on the other end said.

"Then do well to enlighten me."

"She's not who you think she is." The person on the other end said. I smirked. This must be Mark's doing.

"Neither am I."

There was a pause. Then a low, humorless laugh.

"Check your inbox. I sent you something you'll want to see."

The line went dead. I opened my email and saw nothing. Then the screen refreshed. Just one message with a subject line, Ask her about Jacob.

I clicked it open and stared at the photo attachment loading. And when it did, I went still. The woman in the image is a splitting image of Eliza. Same eyes with same smile just younger. And she wasn't alone. She was wrapped around a man who wasn't her husband. And that man was very much dead.

ELIZA WHITMORE'S POV

He was watching me. I could feel it, even before I turned. The glass walls of the penthouse office gave the illusion of privacy, but nothing about Dominic Blackwell's presence ever allowed you to forget you were being observed.

"I'm not used to being surveilled," I said, folding my arms as I stepped into the room.

Dominic didn't look up right away. He was seated behind a black marble desk, a sleek laptop open in front of him. His eyes lifted to mine slowly, but calculating.

"Security is standard protocol in this building." He stated not shifting his gaze from mine.

"And the security footage you were just reviewing? Also standard?"

"I wanted to make sure you settled in." I scoffed.

"That's your version of hospitality?" this is just bizarre.

He leaned back in his chair. "My version is keeping you alive." I stared at him, unsure if that was a metaphor or something much worse.

He pushed the laptop aside. "Have a seat, Eliza."

"No thank you. I prefer to stand when I'm about to be interrogated." I declined without hesitation.

"This isn't an interrogation." He stated.

"Then what is it?" I asked but he studied me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then he tapped a key and spun the laptop toward me.

On the screen was a photograph. It took me exactly one second to understand what I was looking at. Three to remember where and when it had been taken. Five to feel the blood drain from my face.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, my voice turned shaky.

He didn't blink. "Someone sent it. No name. Just a warning."

My hand trembled before I pulled it into a fist. "That picture is over ten years old."

"You look the same." That isn't a compliment.

"I was nineteen." I said. What was this person up to and how did they get the photograph?

"And the man?"

I met his eyes. "His name was Jacob."

"Was." He asked further to confirm if I wasn't mistaken.

"Yes." I said, He waited, the room had drifted into silence. I dropped into the chair across from him because standing suddenly felt like too much.

"He was my first love. My first everything." I was grief took over me. If he wasn't dead, I'll still be with him.

"And he's dead." I could feel the sympathy in his tone.

"Yes."

"Did you kill him?" he asked further, was I bring framed by the caller?

I didn't flinch. "No." I said shaking my head.

"But someone did." He asked again. That was tricky as only I know he was murdered to the rest it was recorded as suicide.

I nodded. "Yes." Dominic was quiet again. I hated how calm he was. Like none of this surprised him. Like he'd already played out every version of this conversation in his mind.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

I swallowed. My throat felt too tight, like the words had to force their way out.

"I met Jacob at Idaho when I was visiting my cousin. He wasn't LDS. He had a motorcycle and bad tattoos and too many opinions. I fell in love in three weeks."

"You were a teenager." He asked again. I'm not to blame. I was in my primes, it's hormones.

"I was desperate to feel seen. He saw me." Dominic said nothing.

"I stayed longer than I should have. I had lied to my parents. And also lied to my bishop. We talked about running away. He wanted to take me to California. I believed him."

"And what happened?" He asked further. My eyes now teary. I used the back of my palm to wipe it off. He handed me wads of tissue.

"Thanks." I said as I collected the tissue. "I told my father. I thought if I confessed, he'd understand. That he'd see how different this was."

"But I was wrong. he didn't. Instead, he did what he always did. He called Mark."

Dominic's eyebrows lifted just slightly. "Your husband?"

"At the time, he was my bishop's son. Five years older than me. He was already in law school and already chosen."

"Chosen for you." He further asked.

I nodded "Yes."

"You didn't love him." He asked again, my face irritated.

"I didn't even know him."

"And Jacob?" he asked as I sobbed loudly. Mark forbade me from thinking about Jacob nor speaking. This is the first person who isn't LDS that is hearing about Jacob.

I looked away. Cleaning my teary eyes with the tissue. "He was found three days later. Dead in a drainage ditch."

Dominic's voice was low. "And what did the police say?"

"Overdose. Heroin. Except Jacob never touched drugs. He hated needles. Had a phobia of them."

"You think it was staged." He farther asked. His breathing was irrational.

"I think he was eliminated." I explained.

"And you?" he asked again.

"I was put into a bishop-led rehabilitation program for troubled girls. Kept away from phones, books and anything secular. I didn't speak to anyone from the outside for eight months. When I came back, I was engaged to Mark."

Dominic leaned forward. "And you never told anyone?"

"I was told Jacob's death was my fault. That I tempted him, corrupted him and that my silence was repentance."

His jaw flexed. "And you believed them?" He asked again, this time sounding paranoid.

"I was nineteen. Alone. And terrified."

"But you don't believe them now." Staring deep into my eyes.

"No. Now I know better." My ignorance was used against me.

Dominic closed the laptop and exhaled through his nose. "There's a man in Nevada. He runs offshore accounts. Has links to your husband. I think he's the one who sent the photo."

"Why now?" I asked confused, why would he send them now?

"Because someone wants to scare you out of this job." He stated. This must be Mark's doing.

"Why? Why now if all times?"

"Because you're safer near me than you ever were back home."

I blinked. "That's not exactly comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be." He sounded indifferent

I stood again, trying to keep my balance against the weight of the past pressing down on me. "What do I do?"

"You stay here. You work. You earn your independence. And you tell me everything you've been holding back."

"I don't even know what that is yet."

"Then start figuring it out."

He walked to the window, hands in his pockets. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "I've had people come after me before. But this is personal. They sent that photo to make you run. You don't strike me as the running type anymore."

"I'm not." I said trying to assure myself. Yes, I'm scared but if I don't fight, I'll be back at my vomit.

"Good."

I stepped forward. "What do you want me to do tomorrow?" that's what is important for now.

"Be in this office at seven. Learn my calendar. Get familiar with my contacts. I need someone who knows how to keep things quiet."

"I can do that." I said smiling.

"I don't doubt it."

"And what about Jacob?" I asked, he acted concerned earlier which got me thinking.

Dominic turned, his expression unreadable. "We find out who buried him."

Later that night, I stood alone on the balcony of my temporary suite, staring out at the city that didn't care who I used to be.

The wind was sharp. The kind that cut straight through the skin and into the memories. My fingers curled tighter around the railing.

Behind me, my phone lit up. I turned back. A message dropped. No name, just a subject line. Like the one sent to Dominic. Stop digging, It read. Beneath it sat an attachment. It was a photo. This time it wasn't me. It was of my oldest son, taken this morning, walking to school alone. My heart sank. I dialed my sister's line but it wasn't reachable .