The Billionaire's Good Girl. Not.

"Your sister only just decided to cut off her engagement with Maverick Shelby this morning. The wedding is in a few hours, you have to be ready in time for it. She ripped her dress in anger so make do with whatever white dress you have there" Mother said with no trace of warmth in her voice. Her and Father had just entered my room that morning to drop the bombshell.

"But Mother-"

"This is a business deal that cannot be lost Camilla. If Lisa says she can't do it, you have to step up. You're the older one. Protect her." Father cut in sternly.

"Your sister cannot marry him because she doesn't love him. You know how soft she is, she might as well get depressed and commit suicide. You don't actually want to send her to her demise do you?" Mother asked as she pinned her narrow gaze on me.

"No, mother. I'll get ready now. I don't have a dress though". I muttered quietly, clenching my fists.

That was always the case with my sister, Lisa. As the younger, she always got the better treatment from our parents. Whenever things when south with her, mother and father always made me take over and clean her mess. That business deal in question had already been sealed months ago but Maverick refused any sort of interaction with Lisa. I'm sure she has only just realized what sort of life she would lead if she got married to him.

"The maids will send you a white dress in a minute. For now go downstairs for breakfast, we don't want to keep Maverick waiting when he arrives." Mother said dismissively as she left.

"You aren't doing this for yourself, Camilla. The company is in dire need of this deal, do not ruin it for us."

Father said leaving me in absolute silence to reason my newly acquired bondage.

While I went to shower, the maid brought in a plain silk dress, pressed adequately and dropped it on my bed. I washed up and got dressed in the gown. It stopped just below my knee and it made me look awkward but I had to make do with it. I braided my hair in one braid and used my silver and white hair comb. I slipped ona pair of silver slipper heels and went downstairs. No matter how bad things got, a little ceremony-even if it was to celebrate my prison- made things a little bit better.

From the staircase, I could get the sweet aroma of of bacon and blueberry pancakes as I walked down. It made my stomach growl in hunger. I hadn't had any meal since lunch yesterday but no matter how hungry I felt, there was no way I keep any food down at this point. Besides, it didn't matter to them anyway, all father and mother cared about was that their beloved business deal still stood. Nothing else, except Lisa's 'mental health' of course, mattered. Finally, I got to the living room and took a seat at the edge of the stiff wooden chair there, waiting for my 'prince charming', fists clenched and diging crescents in my palms. I slouched slighty and took in deep breaths to help calm my nerves.

"This is no time to sulk," my mother snapped heading in my direction from the kitchen, her voice a slap. She tugged at my neckline as though the fault were mine. "Sit up straight, Camilla. For heaven's sake, do not embarrass us today." Well, father already said that, anything else?

I lifted my head instinctively and pressed my lip shut. As if anything I said could ruin everything.

She leaned closer, perfume-cheap jasmine-filling my nose. Once it had been Elizabeth Arden. "Remember, you are representing us, your family. Whatever happens, keep your mouth closed, keep your head down, and sign what you are told to sign."

Representing. Right. Not choosing. Just a tool, a means to an end.

The doorbell rang, jolting through me like electricity. My father's deep voice followed immediately.

"Camilla, he's here. Walk briskly; do not keep our guest waiting."

I willed my body to move but it refused to listen to me. My knees locked, my breathing became heavy. Maybe, just maybe, if I stayed here long enough, the ground would open up and swallow me whole before I had to walk out there.

"Camilla!" My father barked, his voice, as sharp as a whip.

I forced myself up. My legs trembled slightly, the hem of my dress whispering against my knee. My mother's gaze burned into the back of my neck as I approached father. The door swung open. Then I saw him.

Maverick Shelby aka the man who would have me on a leash for the rest of my life.

My eyes moved of their own free will, drinking in his features. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit without a tie. His looked like it'd been ran through by his long fingers all morning. He looked at least 6'3ft with massively broad shoulders and a layer of thin muscle. My eyes trained more upward and I saw the tattoo on his neck that ran down to his chest where the first two buttons of his shirt was undone. I glanced at his lips, full and carefully sculpted, the kind that begged to be touched. They looked pink and...soft, it was almost as if they promised to taste as good as they looked. I shook my head slightly. What am I doing?

I finally looked at his eyes. His beautiful sapphire orbs revealed no emotion. Hell, his entire face was unreadable. There was no warm or even a flicker of tenderness in his gaze. He didn't even attempt a smile. Message received mister. I'm also not thrilled to be married to you. Deal with it.

"Let's go," he said, smooth but sharp. Impatience clear each word. "I don't have all day."

Not a greeting. Just an order.

Jerk.

My father chuckled, unfazed. "Of course, of course. Camilla, get your purse."

My purse. Wow, I didn't even get flowers. Some interesting wedding this was going to be.

My mother shoved the small black purse into my hands, lips pinched. "Be good."

I took the purse and step out. The sunlight hit me square in the face as the heat pressed against my skin. The sun in Abu Dhabi was absolutely not friendly but at least, our city was beautiful. It didn't make up for the heat but at least the environment was beautiful to look at. Maverick headed to the black sleek Cadillac at our porch, he didn't look back to confirm if I followed but I did regardless.

When we got closer to the car, the driver stepped out and opened the door for Maverick. I followed suit behind him, the door was closed after me.

"Where to now? A church?" I asked.

"The court." Maverick said, typing away on his phone. He didn't even spare me a glance. The drive began.

The city went on as usual out side while I was a mess of nerves on the inside.

Soon enough, the court was in sight, it's gray stone towering under the pale blue skies.

The driver stopped at the parking lot and we went inside. The interior was a beautiful as your regular courthouse. The air reeked of disinfectant. As thought the place was cleaned only a few moments ago. We joined a queue of happily newly weds and slowly but steadily, It got to our turn.

This was it.

The moment I sealed my fate.

The judge, well over fifty years of age with a little silver stubble and moustache, barely glanced at us. He looked utterly bored, like marriages were no more significant than land transfers. He scribbled something on the marriage slip and showed us where we were each supposed to sign. Maverick took the pen from him and signed quickly, his signature as bold and sharp, as though he didn't want this too.

If he didn't want this why was he even getting involved in the first place? What does Father have over him to make his hands tied? He's the Maverick Shelby, it's almost impossible for him to be trapped, so what kind of business deal did he have with Dad?

After signing, Maverick handed me the pen to sign too. My hand trembled slightly as I took it from him. I took hold of the slip too and my hand hovered over where my signature should have been. It was not too late. I could ditch this marriage here and be done with it. Am I really going to do this?

"You're doing this for your family"

I recalled Father's words. This was a necessary evil. I had to make this sacrifice for them.

My hand shook as I lowered the pen to the paper. Here goes nothing.

I signed.

Done.

My life signed away to a man I didn't love, didn't know, didn't even register my existence.

Mrs. slammed against my ribs. I wanted to rip it away, scream, deny it-but...my voice was gone.

Maverick didn't look at me.

"We're done here. Let's go."

Back in the car, silence pressed on my chest. I blurted, "Where are we going now? The church"

"Work," he answered, clipped.

"Today?"

"Yes. My driver will take you home."

My heart stumbled.

"So that's it? Court signing, and then-you take me back to my father's house?"

His gaze finally met mine, steady and cutting. "You wanted this marriage, didn't you? Your family begged for it. Don't act surprised it's transactional."

The words knocked the air from my lungs.

"I didn't want this," I whispered, voice cracking. "My family forced me-"

"Then maybe you should learn to stand up to them." His tone was colder than stone. Eyes flicked back to the phone, dismissing me entirely. "You're my wife now. Adjust accordingly."

Silence deafened.

I pressed my forehead to the glass, fighting the sting in my eyes. The window cool against burning skin. Outside, vendors shouted, motorcycles weaved close to cars, a dog barked. Vibrant, free. While I sat shackled beside the man who had turned my life into a business deal.

The car slowed into my father's driveway. Maverick didn't move, not even to bid me farewell. The driver opened my door.

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the purse. Lips parted, desperate for one word.

"Maverick..."

Flat voice. No discussion. "I'll send someone for you and your belongings a week from today."

For the first time, he looked at me, cold and unblinking. Beneath the flat tone simmered a warning.

"Don't disappoint me, Mrs. Shelby. You won't like the consequences if you do."

The driver shut the door. The car pulled away, leaving the words hanging in the burning air. And somewhere inside me, I knew , this was only the beginning.

What an asshole!

He didn't even have the courtesy to take me to my new home and show me around.

Behind me, my mother's voice floated from the porch, eager, nosy. "Well? How was it?"

Her words clawed at the air like talons.

I turned slowly. My throat was dry, my eyes raw from the tears I'd been swallowing since the courthouse. My dress clung to my ankles with sweat, the fabric suffocating against my ribs. I lifted my chin because that's what she expected, though my hands shook against the purse Maverick had practically shoved me back with.

"It went well. He... he'll send someone to pick me up." My voice came out small, as though it belonged to someone else. My father appeared behind her, expression carved from stone. Not joy. Not pride. Just cold calculation.

"Well, that's that," he said, brushing past me into the house as though I'd just completed an errand.

Their silence was heavier than words. The truth pressed against my chest: nothing about this was "well" or "fine."

Not even close.

A week later, I was painting in my bedroom when I heard the sound of car. The smell of paint clung to my fingers as I dragged a brush across canvas, trying to capture the colors of a fading sunset. My strokes were uneven, clumsy, but painting was the only thing that made sense to me anymore. Something I had chosen.

The golden light filtered through my bedroom window, warming the jars of paint scattered across my desk. Outside, palm leaves rustled, a fountain murmured down the street. For a fleeting moment, life felt normal again. No cold men in pressed suits. No parents treating me like currency.

But the day had arrived. The day Maverick said he'd send someone to pick me up.

My brush slipped, a streak of blue dripping onto the edge of the canvas. My pulse kicked. Had he come for me himself?

By the time I reached the window, hope collapsed into something heavier. It wasn't him. A driver in a sharp uniform stepped out of a black car, polished like obsidian. His movements were precise, practiced. He spoke quietly to my father at the gate.

"Camilla!" My father's voice thundered from below.

My stomach twisted.

My gaze slid to the corner of my room. Three big boxes. Packed days ago. My life, folded neatly against the wall, ready for someone else's hands to move.

The driver's voice was crisp, detached. "Miss Santos. Mr. Shelby is expecting you at the manor."

Manor.

The ride was a blur. The windows were tinted and the silence, suffocating. The faint scent of leather and cedar filled the car, edged with something familiar-Maverick's cologne. My pulse betrayed me, catching in my throat. He was here a few moments ago. It's his car so....

The city peeled away in fragments: skyscrapers shimmering, roads thinning, houses spreading farther apart. Each one larger, colder, fenced off by iron gates. Fortresses. And I was being delivered into one.

The Shelby Manor rose before me like a monument. Marble and glass stretched high, sharp-edged and gleaming under the evening sun. Wide steps, black double doors, fountains whispering at the drive. But there was no warmth, no soul, only the pure shine of perfection visible.

The driver stacked my suitcases at the base of the steps. He didn't carry them in. Didn't even glance at me with sympathy.

"Mr. Shelby instructed me to tell you this," he said, his cap shadowing his eyes. "There are no servants in the house. From now on, as lady of the house, it is your responsibility to care for it-and for its occupants."

Lady of the house.

The title rang like mockery. A disguise for what I really was: an unpaid maid with a marriage certificate. Some wife I was.

By the time I dragged my suitcases over the marble and shouldered the heavy door open, the driver was gone.

Inside, the silence was absolute.

The air smelled faintly of citrus, sharp and artificial, as though the house itself had been scrubbed clean of anything resembling life. Marble stretched beneath my feet, glossy and pale. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed gardens outside, but not a single person greeted me. No instructions. No welcome.

Just space and...silence.

As I wandered through hallways, my footsteps echoed past staircases that twisted upward like something out of a palace. Each room was flawless, untouched, empty.

On the second floor, I found a smaller bedroom tucked into the corner. The sheets were crisp and blue, the window overlooking swaying palms. It felt less like a stage and more like somewhere I could breathe. It felt more...me.

"This will do," I whispered to no one.

Chapter 3

I went downstairs to get my heavy boxes and managed to drag them up the stairs. I took the flight of stairs and into the room I selected and began to settle in. In a few hours time, I was almost done but really hungry. I sped up my arrangement and went to shower. I hurriedly showered then went downstairs to make dinner. I'm just curious, you know. The driver said he wanted to see me at the Manor, well here I am, where is he? It's a little over eight pm anyway. I looked around the kitchen and found some ingredients for only pasta. Has anyone lived here before now? He needed to do some serious grocery shopping.

It took me a while to finish cooking but well, I did. After eating, I served Maverick's on the dining table and went to wait for him on the sofa. I sat on the cream sofa, hugging my knees and watching the wall clock tick by. Midnight came soon enough, so did one and two. He didn't show up. Great. The first night in my matrimonial home and he doesn't come home. Amazing.

Soon enough, I got tired of waiting and slept off.

I woke up to the sound of a muffled laughter and the clink of a glass on the kitchen counter..

I followed the sound bare feet and it directed me to the kitchen.

The kitchen lights were too bright, glaring against my tired eyes. And there the source was.

A girl. Bare legs, hair tousled like someone had ruffled it all night. She wore a man's white button-down shirt-Maverick's shirt.

She leaned against the counter, sipping wine with a smirk that carved me open. Her eyes met mine, bold, unashamed, daring me to speak.

She didn't need words. The message was clear.

You're not the only one here.

My chest hollowed. My hands trembled.

I turned without a sound, forcing my steps steady as I retreated down the hall and up the stairs and into my room

I slumped against the door. My pulse roared in my ears. The faint scent of his cologne clung to that shirt she was draped in was enough proof.

Evidence

This wasn't an accident.

Maverick had brought her here-to spit on our marriage before it even began.

When Maverick finally came home hours later, the low rumble of his voice carried down the hall, casual and dismissive, as though he hadn't brought another woman into his wife's house.

My anger burned hot and shaky inside me, stronger than the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I forced myself to leave the safety of my room. My bare feet whispered against the cold floor as I moved toward the living room.

He was there-jacket draped carelessly over a chair, his tie hanging loose, hair tousled in that effortless way that probably charmed other women. He poured amber liquid into a glass as though this were just another evening, as though he hadn't spat on the vows he'd made less than a week ago.

"You brought her here," I said. My voice came out raw, trembling, but louder than I'd intended. "A week after our wedding. You couldn't even let me settle before parading her through these halls like-like I don't exist. Firstly, you dump me in this empty house and make me a caretaker, a maid for you and your precious marble palace, and then you bring in a girl. Have you no respect for me? Did I ask to be here? You think I'm having fun in this prison? Do you, for one moment, think I want to be married to you?"

His hand stilled on the glass. Slowly, he turned his gaze on me. The silence stretched, thick, until a low chuckle escaped his lips. Cold. Mocking.

For a heartbeat, I thought I saw amusement in his eyes. But then it hardened into something worse-indifference sharpened into disdain.

"Surely if you spoke to your parents like this, they would have listened to you," he said smoothly. Each word was a blade dipped in ice. He set the glass down, leaned against the counter, and let his gaze sweep over me like I was something beneath his shoes. "You think wearing my name makes you my wife? Don't fool yourself. You're not worthy of being Mrs. Shelby, Camilla. Don't confuse paperwork with value."

I flinched, but he wasn't done.

"Do not even think, for one moment, that because I decided to help your wretched father and marry you, you have a say in this house. Watch your tongue. You will not speak to me like that again."

The words hit harder than a slap. My breath hitched, chest tight. My fingers curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms to hold back the tears that burned in my throat.

But he had already dismissed me. He turned his back, swirling his drink like the conversation was over, like I was over.

I stumbled back to my room. The echo of his words clung to me like smoke, seeping into my skin.

In the bathroom, the faint citrus scent of the soap greeted me, sharp and sterile. I splashed my face with water, scrubbing as if I could wash away the humiliation. But the sting in my chest remained. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank walls. That was my welcome into this marriage.

Maverick didn't come home for the next week. I was left to clean up the mess he made with his mistress on that day, the soiled bedsheets and littered clothes everywhere in his bedroom. That's just a different level of disrespect.

Would I have to face this for the rest of my life?

Would he ever change?