Testing His Wife: The Billionaire's Secret

"Seventy-two dollars."

Frieda stared at the red numbers on the final notice. She sat on the worn fabric sofa in the dim living room of their Riverside Heights apartment. The cheap floor lamp cast a yellow, sickly glow over the stack of unpaid bills spread across the coffee table.

She rubbed her temples. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. Seventy-two dollars left in her checking account to survive the next twelve days.

A sharp metallic click echoed from the front door.

Frieda's head snapped up. Her heart skipped a beat.

The heavy door was shoved open with brutal force. A gust of freezing night air rushed into the cramped hallway.

Dewitt stood in the doorway. His massive frame filled the space. The harsh scent of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves, mixing with the cold air.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

The impact made the thin walls of the apartment vibrate.

Frieda jumped to her feet. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. She took a hesitant step back.

Dewitt reached up and yanked his dark tie loose. His movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. His heavy leather shoes hit the cheap laminate floor with loud, deliberate thuds as he walked toward the living room.

The smell of liquor grew stronger. It burned Frieda's nose.

"Dewitt?" she asked.

She took a step forward, wanting to ask if he was okay. Then she saw his eyes.

They were bloodshot. Dark. Completely devoid of the cold, calculated indifference he usually wore.

He didn't turn toward the guest bedroom. He walked straight at her.

His broad shoulders and towering height sucked all the oxygen out of the tiny room.

Frieda took another step back. The back of her calves hit the hard edge of the coffee table. She had nowhere else to go.

Dewitt lunged.

His large hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. His grip was like a steel vise.

Frieda gasped. Sharp pain shot up her arm.

She tried to yank her hand back. "Let go!"

Instead of letting go, Dewitt pulled her hard.

Frieda stumbled forward. Her body crashed into his solid, burning chest.

He felt like a brick wall. The heat radiating through his dress shirt scorched her skin.

Dewitt lowered his head. His hot, ragged breath hit the sensitive skin of her neck.

A violent shiver ripped down Frieda's spine.

She brought both hands up and shoved hard against his chest. Her palms pressed flat against his hard muscles. He didn't move an inch.

Dewitt's free hand slid around her waist. His fingers dug into her lower back. He jerked her flush against him.

Every line of his hard body pressed into her soft one.

A low, gravelly sound vibrated in his chest. He muttered something against her skin. The words were slurred, unintelligible, but the raw hunger in his tone made Frieda's heart race out of control.

His lips brushed against her earlobe.

A jolt of electricity shot straight to her toes.

Frieda panicked. She twisted her head away, her breathing turning shallow and fast.

She shoved him again.

Dewitt lost his footing. His drunken balance failed him.

They fell backward.

Frieda hit the cushions of the fabric sofa with a soft thud.

Dewitt crashed down right on top of her.

His heavy body pinned her completely to the cushions. The living room light was blocked out by his broad shoulders. She was trapped in his shadow.

Frieda stared up at him in pure terror. His face was inches from hers.

The coldness in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by a dark, predatory heat that made her blood run cold.

Dewitt grabbed both of her wrists with one hand. He pinned them flat against the cushion above her head.

He stripped away her only defense in one smooth motion.

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Frieda bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dewitt's Adam's apple bobbed. He slowly lowered his face toward hers.

Frieda squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest heaved. Her muscles locked up, bracing for the violation she knew was coming.

His lips were less than an inch from hers. She could feel the heat of his mouth.

A violent buzzing sound erupted between them.

The cell phone in Dewitt's suit pocket vibrated relentlessly against Frieda's chest.

Dewitt froze.

His body went completely rigid.

He blinked. The heavy fog of alcohol in his eyes parted for a split second. Confusion washed over his sharp features.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a pained groan.

The alcohol finally won.

Dewitt's head dropped like a stone. His face buried into the crook of Frieda's shoulder. All the tension left his muscles as he passed out cold.

Frieda held her breath. Her lungs burned.

She waited five agonizing seconds. He didn't move. His breathing evened out into a deep, heavy rhythm.

She shoved her hands against his shoulders and rolled his dead weight off her body.

Frieda sat up quickly. She gasped for air. Her hands shook violently as she pulled her wrinkled shirt down.

She stared at the man passed out on her sofa. Her heart was still beating out of her chest.

But as she watched his chest rise and fall, the sheer terror in her veins slowly morphed into a heavy, suffocating exhaustion.

He looked so normal when he slept. Not like a monster. Just a tired, drunk man.

Frieda let out a long, shaky breath.

She stood up on trembling legs and walked into her bedroom. She grabbed a thin fleece blanket from the closet.

She walked back to the living room and draped the blanket over Dewitt's broad shoulders.

Frieda stood by the coffee table. She looked down at her husband of three months.

Her throat tightened. She had no idea how she was going to survive this marriage.

The morning sun cut through the cheap plastic blinds.

It cast harsh, straight lines of light across the living room floor. Frieda pushed herself up from the armchair where she had spent the night. Her back ached.

She walked past the sofa and headed straight into the tiny kitchen.

She needed to make hangover soup.

Frieda grabbed a knife. She sliced through a firm red tomato and a yellow onion. Her movements were quick and precise. The sharp scent of raw onion filled the small space.

A low, painful groan came from the living room.

Dewitt slowly opened his eyes. The sunlight hit his face, and he winced.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples.

He looked down. He saw the fleece blanket pooled around his waist. His body went completely still. His eyes sharpened, instantly alert and guarded.

He heard the rhythmic chopping sound.

Dewitt turned his head. He saw Frieda standing at the kitchen counter. She was wearing a faded yellow apron over her clothes.

The memories of last night hit him like a freight train.

The smell of her skin. The way he had pinned her wrists. The absolute loss of control.

Dewitt's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His stomach churned with deep, bitter regret. He had almost ruined the entire test.

He threw the blanket off his legs. He forced his face into a mask of pure ice.

He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. His footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

Frieda turned around. She held a steaming bowl of tomato and onion soup in her hands.

She looked up, a soft, hesitant smile forming on her lips.

Her smile died the second she met his eyes.

Dewitt's gaze was freezing. It cut through her like a physical blade.

Frieda froze. Her fingers tightened around the hot ceramic bowl.

Dewitt stared at the soup. His upper lip curled in a sneer.

"I don't need your cheap pity," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth.

Frieda flinched. The words felt like a slap to the face.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her chin from trembling. She slowly turned and placed the bowl on the counter. She kept her head down, hiding the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.

Dewitt didn't look at her again.

He turned on his heel and marched straight to the guest bedroom.

The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Inside the guest room, Dewitt walked straight to the attached bathroom. He turned on the faucet. He splashed freezing cold water onto his face, trying to wash away the scent of her that still lingered in his mind.

He dried his face. He stripped off his wrinkled shirt and pulled a fresh, dark, perfectly tailored suit from his garment bag.

He tied his tie with sharp, angry jerks. He looked in the mirror. The cold, ruthless corporate executive was back.

Dewitt walked out of the bedroom. He ignored the kitchen entirely.

He walked into the small room they used as a study and locked the door behind him.

He sat down at the cheap desk. He opened his encrypted laptop and logged into his secure cloud drive, a habit he maintained to keep his personal affairs strictly separated. He opened an email from his assistant, K.C.

The attachment was labeled: Divorce Agreement and Severance Terms.

Dewitt's eyes darkened. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it. He clicked download.

He scrolled through the legal jargon. He checked the final number. It was enough money to keep her comfortable for a few years. A generous payout for a failed test.

He grabbed his expensive fountain pen. He flipped to the printed signature page on the desk.

He pressed the gold nib against the thick paper. He was ready to end this.

A sharp, piercing ring echoed through the apartment.

The doorbell. It rang again. Frantic and loud.

Dewitt's hand jerked. The pen left a harsh black scratch across the paper. He cursed under his breath and dropped the pen.

In the kitchen, Frieda wiped her wet hands on her apron.

She frowned and walked to the front door. She leaned forward and looked through the peephole.

An elderly woman stood in the hallway. She had perfectly styled silver hair and wore a tailored tweed coat. A middle-aged woman stood slightly behind her, holding a massive, expensive-looking gift box.

Frieda had no idea who they were.

She hesitated for a second, then unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches.

The elderly woman's stern face instantly melted into a bright, warm smile.

"You must be Frieda," Eleonora Vance said.

Before Frieda could process the words, Eleonora pushed the door wide open and stepped right into the apartment. The nanny, Maura, followed closely behind.

In the study, Dewitt heard the voices.

His blood ran cold. He recognized that voice instantly.

He grabbed the divorce papers, shoved them into the bottom drawer of the desk, and slammed it shut.

He unlocked the study door and stepped into the living room.

His eyes locked onto Eleonora. His pupils dilated in pure shock.

Eleonora turned her head. She locked eyes with him.

"Dewitt Stone," she said. Her voice carried the heavy, unquestionable authority of a billionaire matriarch.

Dewitt's face drained of all color.

His lungs seized. His perfectly controlled world had just been blown wide open.

Frieda stood frozen in the middle of the living room.

Her hands nervously twisted the fabric of her yellow apron. The elderly woman's presence was overwhelming. She radiated a quiet, intimidating power that made the cheap apartment feel even smaller.

Eleonora reached out and gently took Frieda's hands.

"I am Dewitt's grandmother," Eleonora said. Her voice was surprisingly soft and warm.

Frieda's eyes widened. She gasped softly.

"Oh! Please, come in. Sit down," Frieda said, her voice shaking slightly. She quickly stepped aside, gesturing toward the worn sofa.

Eleonora smiled and sat down gracefully. Maura stood silently behind her.

Dewitt marched across the room. His jaw was locked tight.

He stopped right in front of Eleonora. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "What are you doing here? You didn't call."

Eleonora scoffed. She lifted her polished wooden cane and struck the cheap laminate floor with a loud thwack.

"You've been married for three months. You haven't brought your wife home once. Did you expect me to wait forever?" she snapped.

Dewitt's face turned a dangerous shade of pale. He couldn't say a word. He couldn't tell her he was running a psychological test on his wife to see if she was a gold digger. Not with Frieda standing two feet away.

Eleonora ignored his silent rage. She turned her sharp gaze around the room.

She took in the peeling paint on the baseboards, the cheap furniture, and the absolute, spotless cleanliness of the space.

Her eyes landed on the small coffee table. A cheap glass vase held a handful of wildflowers, arranged with an elegant, effortless beauty. Her eyes softened with approval.

Eleonora turned back to Frieda.

"Have you eaten breakfast, my dear?" Eleonora asked. "I rushed over here so early, I haven't had a bite."

Frieda's face flushed with embarrassment.

"I... I only have some basic things in the fridge," Frieda stammered. "Just eggs, some toast, and bacon."

Eleonora waved her hand dismissively. "That sounds wonderful. I would love to taste my granddaughter-in-law's cooking."

Dewitt stepped forward, his chest tight with panic.

"No," Dewitt said sharply. "I'll take you out. There's a French place downtown-"

Eleonora shot him a glare so lethal it made him snap his mouth shut.

"I said, I want to eat here," she commanded.

Frieda took a deep breath. Her stomach fluttered with nerves.

"I'll be right back," she said, turning and practically running into the kitchen.

She pulled open the refrigerator door. She grabbed the carton of eggs, a stick of butter, and the package of cheap bacon.

She stood in front of the counter. She closed her eyes for a split second.

A strange, familiar calm washed over her. It was a feeling she couldn't explain, a deep-rooted instinct that lived in her blood. The ghost of her mother, Emelie, guiding her hands.

Frieda opened her eyes. She moved.

Her hands flew across the cutting board. She minced fresh herbs with terrifying speed and precision. The knife blurred.

She didn't make a complicated dish. She cracked the eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and began to whisk with a steady, practiced rhythm. She was making a simple but careful scramble.

She dropped a pad of butter into the hot skillet. It sizzled loudly.

The rich, heavy scent of browning butter and roasting bacon exploded out of the kitchen and drifted into the living room.

On the sofa, Eleonora stopped glaring at Dewitt. She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring slightly. A look of genuine surprise crossed her face.

Ten minutes later, Frieda walked out of the kitchen.

She carried two plain white ceramic plates. She set them down gently on the small dining table.

The omelettes were massive, golden, and perfectly puffed. The bacon was arranged on the side, crisp and glistening. It looked like a dish pulled straight from a three-star Michelin kitchen.

Eleonora stood up and walked to the table.

She picked up a fork and knife. She cut a small piece of the fluffy egg and placed it in her mouth.

Eleonora's eyes flew wide open.

The egg practically melted on her tongue. It was fluffy and incredibly tender, cooked to the exact right temperature, carrying a rich, distinct aroma of browned butter. It was the most thoughtfully prepared breakfast she had tasted in years.

Eleonora stared at Frieda in absolute disbelief. Women from the rust belt rarely had such an intuitive touch with simple ingredients. This required a natural, raw talent for the kitchen.

Eleonora dropped her fork. She reached out and grabbed Frieda's hands, squeezing them tight.

"This is the most incredible breakfast I have ever had," Eleonora said, her voice thick with emotion.

Frieda's cheeks burned bright red. She looked down at her shoes. "It's just eggs. I just threw it together."

Dewitt stood in the shadows near the hallway.

His eyes were locked on the perfect, golden food on the plates. His chest tightened. A dark wave of suspicion crashed into him.

He had read her background check ten times. She grew up in a trailer park. She couldn't afford a culinary degree.

Eleonora looked at Frieda like she had just found a diamond in the rough. The approval in her eyes was absolute.

Dewitt clenched his fists at his sides.

His plan was falling apart. His divorce was slipping right through his fingers.