The Billionaire's Regret: My Hidden Wife

The rain battered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Koch Tower conference room, a relentless, rhythmic assault that mirrored the pounding in Aislinn Reese's chest. But on the outside, she was a statue. A dull, grey, lifeless statue. She sat at the long mahogany table, the leather chair swallowing her slight frame. The air conditioning was set too low, a standard tactic in corporate negotiations to make the weaker party uncomfortable. It was working. Her fingertips were numb, but she didn't rub them together. She kept her hands folded in her lap, hidden beneath the table.

Across from her sat Gavin, Eric Koch's personal assistant. He was a man whose entire personality was curated to reflect his boss's efficiency, though he lacked Eric's terrifying presence. Gavin pushed a black fountain pen across the polished surface. It slid with a soft hiss and stopped exactly three inches from her right hand.

"Mr. Koch has authorized the immediate transfer of the initial alimony payment upon signature," Gavin said, his voice carrying a professional pity that stung worse than open mockery. "Five million dollars annually for the next five years. The properties in the Hamptons and the Aspen chalet are also yours, provided the NDA remains unbreached."

Aislinn stared at the document. Divorce Decree. The words should have looked heavy, final. Instead, they looked like liberation.

She reached for the pen. Her hand didn't tremble. She picked it up, feeling the cold weight of the metal against her skin. She didn't look at the signature line immediately. Instead, her eyes scanned the paragraph detailing the financial settlement. Five million. It was the price Eric was willing to pay to erase two years of a marriage he never wanted. A marriage forced by a grandmother's dying wish and a grandfather's ancient debt.

But Eric didn't know that she didn't need his money. He didn't know about the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, the blind trusts, or the royalties from the 'Rose' design empire that had been quietly accumulating interest for years. To him, she was a destitute orphan. Taking his money would only validate his assumption that she was a charity case.

Aislinn flipped the pen. With a swift, decisive motion that made a scratching sound against the paper, she drew a thick line through the alimony clause. Then another line through the property transfer.

Gavin blinked. His professional mask cracked for a fraction of a second. "Mrs. Koch-Ms. Reese. I don't think you understand. This is standard. It's what you're entitled to."

"I don't want it," Aislinn said. Her voice was low, raspy, and deliberately flat. It was the voice she had cultivated for two years-the voice of a woman who had nothing interesting to say. "I want a clean break. No money. No houses. Just the signature."

"But-"

"If I take the money, he thinks he bought me off," she interrupted, keeping her gaze on the paper. "If I take nothing, I just leave."

She signed her name at the bottom. Aislinn Reese. The letters were small, cramped, and unassuming. It was a forgery of her true self. If she had signed as she naturally did-as Rose-the signature would have been a bold, sweeping scrawl that demanded attention. But Aislinn Reese was invisible.

She set the pen down. Then, she reached for her left hand. The platinum band on her ring finger felt like a shackle she had grown used to, the metal warm from her body heat. She slid it off. The skin underneath was pale, a ghost of the commitment that never really existed.

Clink.

She placed the ring on the marble table. The sound echoed in the empty room, sharp and final.

"He's in Europe, correct?" Aislinn asked, standing up. She picked up her worn canvas tote bag, hunching her shoulders slightly to diminish her height.

Gavin cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable as he collected the papers. "Yes. Mr. Koch is in Zurich for the banking summit. He sends his... regards."

A lie. A polite, corporate lie. Aislinn knew Eric's schedule better than Gavin did. Eric wasn't in Zurich. He was twenty floors down, in the private cigar lounge of the exclusive club that occupied the building's lower levels, likely nursing a scotch and complaining about the weather. He couldn't even be bothered to take an elevator ride to end their marriage.

"Goodbye, Gavin," she said.

She turned and walked out. She didn't look back at the ring. She didn't look back at the view of the city she had ostensibly ruled as the wife of New York's most powerful man.

The elevator ride down was silent. Aislinn watched the floor numbers tick down. 50... 40... 30... With every passing floor, the invisible weight on her shoulders lightened. When the doors opened to the lobby, the security guards nodded at her with vague recognition, the way one acknowledges a piece of furniture that is being moved out.

"Do you need the car, Mrs. Koch?" the doorman asked, reaching for an umbrella.

"No," she said. "And it's Ms. Reese."

She stepped out into the rain. It was a torrential downpour, the kind that soaked through fabric in seconds. She didn't care. She walked past the line of waiting black limousines and raised her hand. A yellow taxi screeched to a halt, splashing water onto the curb.

"Brooklyn," she told the driver as she slid onto the cracked vinyl seat. "DUMBO. The Clocktower Building."

The driver raised an eyebrow in the rearview mirror, eyeing her worn tote bag and soaked grey cardigan. "The Clocktower? You sure, lady? That's heavy rent for a..." He trailed off, looking at her shoes.

"I'm house-sitting," Aislinn lied smoothly, leaning back into the shadows of the seat. "For a very eccentric, very rich old woman. I just water the plants."

The driver grunted, accepting the explanation. It made more sense than a woman looking like a drowned rat actually living in one of the most expensive penthouses in Brooklyn. He hit the meter.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Harper.

Voice Message: "Tell me it's done. Tell me the ink is dry and you are currently fleeing the scene of the crime. Drinks are on me. The Vault. Tonight. No excuses."

Aislinn leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. The city blurred into streaks of neon and grey. She closed her eyes and let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for seven hundred and thirty days.

When she unlocked the door to her apartment, the silence that greeted her wasn't lonely; it was luxurious. She kicked off the scuffed loafers she wore to annoy Eric's mother and dug her toes into the deep pile of the authentic Persian rug that cost more than the alimony she had just rejected.

She dropped the canvas bag. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The water ran warm. She splashed it over her face, scrubbing hard. She reached for the bottle of specialized oil cleanser and began to rub.

Grey foundation dissolved. The fake, painted-on freckles that gave her a childish, unpolished look wiped away. The contouring that made her face look rounder and softer vanished. She grabbed a towel and patted her face dry.

She looked in the mirror.

The woman staring back was a stranger to Eric Koch. Her skin was porcelain, luminous and clear. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes, no longer hidden behind the thick, distorting lenses of her black-framed glasses, were a piercing, intelligent green.

She reached behind her back and unhooked the compression corset she wore every day. Her ribs expanded. She took a deep, full breath. Her body, freed from the constraints of "Aislinn the Dowdy Wife," settled back into its natural, statuesque curves.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Koch," she whispered to the reflection. Her voice wasn't raspy anymore. It was rich, velvet, and dangerous.

Her phone pinged again. An encrypted email notification.

Sender: Declan

Subject: Q3 Financials - Code Red

Aislinn picked up the phone, her eyes narrowing. She tapped out a reply with lightning speed, her thumbs moving in a blur.

Reply: Cut the marketing budget for the spring line. Reallocate to R&D. I want the new sketches on my server by midnight. - Rose.

Harper called again. "Pick up, you free woman!"

Aislinn answered, putting the phone on speaker as she walked into her walk-in closet-a space filled not with grey wool skirts, but with silks, velvets, and avant-garde pieces she had designed herself.

"I'm coming," Aislinn said.

"Good. Because I'm already in line and I told the bouncer my best friend is a newly single heiress. Don't make a liar out of me."

Aislinn ran her fingers along the rack of clothes. She stopped at a dress she had made three years ago. It was emerald green silk, backless, with a neckline that plunged dangerously low. It was a weapon of mass destruction in fabric form.

She pulled it on. The silk draped over her body like water. She opened a small, velvet-lined box on her vanity. Inside lay an antique emerald locket, suspended on a delicate gold chain. It was the only thing she had left of her mother.

She clasped it around her neck. The cool stone rested in the hollow of her throat.

She applied a coat of matte red lipstick. She looked at herself one last time. There was no trace of the timid girl who had signed the divorce papers an hour ago.

Tonight, she wasn't Aislinn Reese. She wasn't even Rose. She was just a woman who had been in a cage for too long, and the door had finally been left open.

The bass in The Vault was physical. It vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Aislinn's heels and settling deep in her chest. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled champagne. It was chaotic, loud, and exactly what she needed.

"To freedom!" Harper screamed over the music, thrusting a martini glass into Aislinn's hand.

Aislinn clinked her glass against Harper's. "To never answering to anyone named Koch again."

She downed half the drink in one go. The liquid burned pleasantly on the way down, but there was an odd, metallic aftertaste she didn't recognize. She ignored it. She grabbed Harper's hand and pulled her onto the dance floor.

For an hour, they were just bodies in motion. Aislinn moved with a fluidity she had suppressed for years. She threw her head back, letting her dark hair cascade down her bare back. She felt eyes on her-hungry, appreciative eyes-and for the first time in forever, she didn't shrink away from them. She let herself be seen.

Up on the mezzanine level, in the shadowed recess of a VIP booth, a man named Vance watched the dance floor. He wasn't looking at the crowd; he was looking at the woman in the green dress. He signaled a waiter, slipping a folded bill into his hand along with a small vial. "Another round for the lady in green. Make sure she gets the special blend."

Three floors up, in the Private Owner's Suite, Eric Koch sat on the edge of a leather sofa, his head in his hands. The room was dark, lit only by the amber glow of the city skyline through the window. He felt like his skull was being split open with an axe.

"Gavin," he growled, his voice rough. "Get everyone out. Now."

"Sir, Mr. Vance is insisting on-"

"I don't care what Vance wants," Eric snapped, standing up. The room tilted dangerously. "I said clear the floor. I need silence. And get me some ice water."

"Yes, sir." Gavin retreated, closing the heavy oak door.

Eric loosened his tie, ripping the top button of his shirt in the process. He had only had one drink with Vance earlier-a scotch that tasted slightly off-and now he felt like he had been hit by a truck. His vision was swimming. He walked toward the bedroom, needing to lie down before he passed out.

Downstairs, Aislinn stumbled. The room spun violently.

"Whoa, easy tiger," Harper laughed, steadying her. "One martini and you're wasted? Lightweight."

"Bathroom," Aislinn mumbled. Her tongue felt thick, too big for her mouth. "Need... water."

"I'll come with you."

"No," Aislinn pushed her away gently. "Stay. Dance. I'll be right back."

She navigated through the crowd, but the hallway to the restrooms seemed to stretch and warp like a funhouse mirror. She turned a corner, looking for a quiet place, and saw a private elevator.

VIP Access Only.

She didn't think. Her brain was running on autopilot, accessing memories she thought she had deleted. She punched in a code on the keypad. 1-0-2-4-9-8. It was the universal override code for all Koch properties. She had memorized it from a security memo she'd seen on Eric's desk months ago.

The light turned green. The doors slid open.

Aislinn stumbled inside and leaned against the back wall. The elevator shot upward, bypassing the VIP booths and heading straight for the penthouse.

When the doors opened, she stepped out into a room that smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco. It was dark. Quiet. Cool.

"Harper?" she called out, but her voice was a whisper.

She took three steps and her heel caught on the edge of a rug. She pitched forward.

Strong arms caught her before she hit the floor.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. She was pressed against a hard, warm chest. The scent hit her instantly-not cologne, but something deeper. Soap, musk, and a hint of rain. It was intoxicating.

"Who the hell are you?" A male voice growled, deep and vibrating against her ear.

Eric tried to push the woman away. He had assumed it was one of the "gifts" Vance liked to send up, but as his hands gripped her bare arms, his brain short-circuited. Her skin was incredibly soft, fever-hot. And she smelled... incredible. Like vanilla and something wild.

Aislinn looked up. In the darkness, she couldn't make out his features. Her drugged mind supplied an image from a magazine she'd seen earlier. The model. The one with the eyes.

"You're warm," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the crisp shirt.

Eric's resolve shattered. The drug in his own system, combined with the sudden, overwhelming sensory overload of her touch, snapped the last thread of his control. He didn't push her away. He pulled her closer.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered, but his mouth was already seeking hers.

When their lips met, it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. Aislinn gasped, opening to him, and he groaned, a sound of pure, starving need. He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the sofa.

Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the building. Inside, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and tearing fabric.

It was a blur of sensation. The roughness of his stubble against her neck. The strength of his hands on her hips. The way he moved-dominant, demanding, yet terrifyingly focused on her. Aislinn had never felt this kind of electricity. It was as if her body, dormant for years, had suddenly been plugged into a high-voltage line.

At some point, the emerald locket caught on a button of his shirt. With a sharp tug as they moved, the delicate gold chain snapped. The necklace slid unnoticed off her neck and fell into the deep crevice between the sofa cushions.

Eric buried his face in her hair, inhaling that scent that seemed to drug him further. "Mine," he gritted out, the word bypassing his logic center entirely.

Aislinn arched her back, lost in the friction and the heat. For tonight, she wasn't Rose. She wasn't Aislinn. She was just sensation.

Eventually, the storm outside quieted. The adrenaline crashed. Eric, overcome by the sedative Vance had slipped him earlier, fell into a heavy, comatose sleep, his arm draped heavily over her waist.

Aislinn lay there, staring at the ceiling. The drug in her system was metabolizing fast, leaving behind a pounding headache and a creeping sense of horror.

The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, slicing across the room.

She turned her head.

The light fell across the face of the man sleeping next to her. The sharp jawline. The dark, brooding brows. The scar above his left eyebrow.

Eric.

Aislinn's heart stopped. Then it restarted at double speed. She scrambled backward, falling off the sofa. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

I just slept with my ex-husband. On the night of our divorce.

Panic, cold and absolute, washed over her. She couldn't be here. If he woke up-if he saw her-everything she had built, every secret she kept, would be destroyed. He would think this was a ploy. A trap.

She grabbed her dress from the floor, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull the zipper up. She didn't look for her shoes. She didn't look for her purse. She just needed to get out.

She ran to the door, bypassing the elevator, and threw open the heavy fire exit door. She sprinted down the concrete stairs, flight after flight, her bare feet slapping against the cold steps.

Ten minutes later, the elevator dinged.

Janine Mcbride stepped out. She was holding a key card she had bribed a housekeeper for, intending to stage a "morning after" photo for the tabloids. She walked into the penthouse, ready to pose.

She stopped. The room was a wreck. Clothes were scattered. And on the sofa, Eric Koch was asleep, looking more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

Janine's eyes scanned the room. She saw the empty space beside him. She saw the indentation on the pillow.

Then, something sparkled in the gap of the sofa cushions.

Janine reached down and pulled it out. It was a heavy, antique gold locket with a massive emerald. She turned it over in her hand. It looked old. Expensive.

A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She unclasped the broken chain, tied it in a knot to secure it, and fastened it around her own neck.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, ruffled her hair to look like she'd been slept on, and waited for Eric to wake up.

Sunlight hit Eric's eyelids like a physical blow. He groaned, shielding his face with his forearm. His head felt like it was packed with cotton, a lingering side effect of whatever Vance had slipped into his drink. But beneath the headache, there was a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his body. A sense of... satisfaction.

Memories flickered. Darkness. Heat. Silk skin. A scent of vanilla and rain. A woman who moved with a wild, desperate energy that matched his own.

He turned over, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Hey."

His fingers brushed against skin.

Eric forced his eyes open.

Janine Mcbride was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow. She was wearing one of his dress shirts, unbuttoned to reveal her cleavage. She smiled, a practiced, camera-ready expression. "Good morning, darling."

Eric froze. He pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove.

He sat up abruptly, the sheet pooling at his waist. He looked at Janine, his eyes narrowing. Something was wrong. The math didn't add up. The woman in his memories-hazy as they were-had felt... smaller. Firmer. And she hadn't smelled like an explosion of Chanel No. 5.

"Janine," he said, his voice rough with sleep and suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

Janine pouted playfully, tracing a finger down his arm. "Don't be like that, Eric. After last night? You were... incredible."

Eric stared at her. He tried to reconcile the visceral memory of the night with the woman in front of him. It felt like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. He didn't remember inviting her. He didn't remember this perfume. But the drugs had left his memory fragmented, unreliable.

Then, his eyes caught the glint of green at her throat.

"That necklace," he said.

Janine's hand flew to the emerald locket. "Oh, this? It fell off while we were... you know. I found it on the floor this morning."

Eric stared at the stone. It was the only concrete evidence that the night had actually happened. He knew he hadn't given it to her. He had never seen that necklace before in his life. But if she had it, she must have been the one in the room. Unless... unless she took it from someone else? Or unless he was more out of his mind than he realized.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was a cold, flat command.

Janine flinched. "Eric?"

"I need to shower. Gavin will call you a car." He stood up, not bothering to cover himself, and walked toward the bathroom. He needed to wash the smell of her perfume off his skin. He needed to think.

Across the bridge, in Brooklyn, Aislinn was scrubbing her skin raw. She stood under the scalding spray of the shower, trying to erase the phantom sensation of Eric's hands on her waist.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She walked into the living room, where Harper was nursing a hangover on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on her head.

"You alive?" Harper groaned. "You disappeared. I thought you got kidnapped."

"I... fell asleep in a lounge," Aislinn lied. The lie tasted like ash.

She reached up to touch her neck, a nervous habit. Her fingers met bare skin.

Aislinn froze. Her hands frantically patted her collarbone, then her chest. She ran back to the bedroom, tearing through the pile of clothes she had discarded.

"No, no, no..."

"What did you lose?" Harper asked from the doorway.

"My mother's locket," Aislinn whispered, her face draining of color. "The emerald one."

"The one with the secret compartment?" Harper's eyes widened. "Aislinn, that thing is worth more than my life. Where did you have it last?"

"The hotel," Aislinn said, sinking onto the bed. "It must have fallen off in the... in the room."

"We have to go back. Call the lost and found."

"I can't," Aislinn said sharply. "I can never go back there."

If Eric found the necklace, he might just think a guest left it. But inside that locket, hidden behind the photo of her mother, was a tiny, engraved stamp: Rose. It was her maker's mark. The same mark on every design blueprint she had ever sold. If Eric opened it...

She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, needing noise to drown out her panic.

Breaking News.

The screen showed paparazzi footage of Janine Mcbride exiting the Koch building. She was wearing sunglasses and a smug smile. And around her neck, gleaming in the camera flash, was the emerald locket.

Aislinn gasped. "That bitch."

Harper squinted at the screen. "Is that... did Janine Mcbride steal your necklace?"

"She didn't steal it," Aislinn realized with a sinking feeling. "She found it. In Eric's room."

"Wait," Harper looked at her slowly. "Why was your necklace in Eric's room?"

Aislinn buried her face in her hands. "Don't ask."

Back at the penthouse, Eric walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. Gavin was waiting, holding a tablet.

"Status," Eric said, fastening his cufflinks.

"Ms. Mcbride has left the building. The press is already running stories about a reconciliation." Gavin paused. "Sir, about last night. You asked me to check the security footage for the penthouse floor."

"And?"

"The feed from 2:00 AM to 6:00 AM is corrupt. It appears someone tampered with the server."

Eric's jaw tightened. Vance. The slimeball must have wiped the tapes to cover up the drugging. But in doing so, he had erased the only way to verify who had actually walked through that door.

"Janine had the necklace," Eric muttered, more to himself than Gavin. "It has to be her." But the memory of the scent-rain and vanilla-wouldn't leave him. Janine smelled like a department store. The woman in the dark smelled like... freedom.

"Sir, there is one more thing," Gavin said, swiping on the tablet. "The acquisition of S.W. Studios is finalized. We own the rights to the 'Rose' brand now. However, the ownership structure is... complex. The seller is a trust represented by Declan. The actual creator, this 'Rose,' remains hidden behind layers of NDA."

"Fine," Eric said, grabbing his jacket. "Set it up. I want to meet this Rose. If she's half as talented as her portfolio suggests, she might be the only interesting thing to happen to me this week."

Aislinn's phone rang. It was Declan.

"We have a problem," Declan's voice was shaking. "The new owners are here. They want a meeting. Now."

"I can't come in, Declan. I'm sick."

"You have to," Declan hissed. "It's Eric Koch personally. He's asking for Rose. If we don't produce someone, he's going to sue us for breach of contract before the ink is dry."

Aislinn looked at the TV, where Janine was still flashing her necklace. Then she looked at the mirror. She had set up S.W. Studios as a front. Declan was the face; she was the ghost. To maintain control, she had "hired" herself as a low-level assistant a month ago, a position that allowed her to be in the room without being seen. It was the perfect camouflage.

"Fine," she said, her voice turning cold. "I'll be there. But Rose isn't coming. Aislinn is."