The Billionaire's Ten Million Dollar Wife

Aimee Berry stared at the piece of paper on her desk. The bright red "OVERDUE" stamp glared back at her, the ink so thick it looked like fresh blood against the crisp white invoice.

Her temples throbbed. A sharp, rhythmic pain pulsed behind her eyes, syncing perfectly with her accelerated heartbeat. She pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead, pushing hard enough to make her vision blur.

This was the final notice for the raw materials. The Berry Custom Workshop, a small Brooklyn-based manufacturing business her father had built from the ground up, was drowning. If she didn't come up with the money by tomorrow morning, the loan sharks her father had desperately turned to would come to seize the heavy machinery. They would take everything.

The frosted glass door of her cramped office swung open with a violent creak.

Davina Le strutted in. Her sharp stiletto heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum floor. She was holding a neon pink gift box that practically glowed in the dim, fluorescent lighting of the workshop.

"Delivery for the most stressed-out woman in Brooklyn," Davina announced, dropping the box right on top of the overdue bills.

Aimee blinked, her exhausted brain struggling to process the bright color. She assumed it was a box of artisanal coffee or pastries. She reached out, untied the black ribbon, and pulled the item from the tissue paper.

Her fingers wrapped around a heavy, aggressively shaped silicone adult toy.

Aimee's entire body froze. The blood drained from her face, rushing straight to her ears. She sat there, paralyzed, holding the neon pink object in mid-air.

Davina burst into a loud, echoing laugh. She clutched her stomach, leaning against the edge of the battered wooden desk. "You should see your face! Aimee, ever since the workshop hit this financial crisis, you've been living like a nun. You need to release some tension before your head literally explodes."

Aimee dropped the toy back into the box as if it had burned her skin. She rubbed her palms against her faded denim jeans, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation.

"Davina, I don't have time for this," Aimee said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any humor. She pointed a trembling finger at the stack of papers beneath the pink box. "The loan sharks are coming tomorrow. They are going to chain the doors. My father will have a heart attack when he finds out."

Before Davina could offer an apology, the cell phone on Aimee's desk vibrated.

The screen lit up with a Manhattan area code. The caller ID displayed the name of a top-tier corporate law firm.

Aimee's stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out across her palms. She froze, her mind instantly jumping to the worst-case scenario. Was this a new tactic from the loan sharks? Had they hired some ruthless suit to intimidate her into signing over the deed to the workshop before the deadline? She sucked in a sharp breath, deciding she couldn't hide from them forever, and pressed the answer button.

"Aimee Berry speaking," she said, her voice tight.

"Ms. Berry," a man's voice responded. The tone was clinical, devoid of any human warmth. "I am calling on behalf of the Fox family trust. The trustees have reviewed your profile. They have agreed to the terms of the marriage contract."

Aimee's grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

"All of the terms?" she asked, her throat suddenly dry.

"Yes. In exchange for your absolute compliance in acting as Mr. Cameron Fox's wife for exactly one year, the trust will inject ten million dollars into the Berry Custom Workshop," the lawyer stated. "However, the behavioral clauses are extremely strict. You are to report to the Fox Group headquarters immediately to sign the paperwork."

The line went dead.

Aimee slowly lowered the phone. Her hands were shaking so violently she had to place them flat on the desk to steady herself.

Davina watched her, the amusement completely gone from her face. "Aimee? What did you just do?"

"I just sold myself," Aimee whispered, the reality of the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "I sold one year of my life for ten million dollars."

Two hours later, Aimee pushed open the heavy, double-leaf agarwood doors of the Fox Group headquarters in the Upper East Side.

She was wearing her best professional suit, but the fabric was cheap, and the cut was slightly outdated. The blast of central air conditioning hit her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

The penthouse office was massive, larger than her entire workshop. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the Manhattan skyline.

Standing in front of the glass was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a bespoke charcoal suit.

Cameron Fox turned around slowly.

His gaze swept over Aimee's face. His eyes were a piercing, icy blue, and they held absolutely no warmth. He looked at her the way a wealthy collector might inspect a slightly flawed piece of merchandise on a shelf. The sheer weight of his scrutiny made Aimee's chest tighten. She felt an overwhelming urge to cross her arms over her chest defensively, but she forced her hands to remain at her sides.

Clara, Cameron's executive assistant, stepped forward. Her heels made no sound on the thick Persian rug. She handed Aimee a thick, leather-bound folder.

"Ms. Berry," Clara said efficiently. "Your primary task is to play the role of Eveline Butler, Mr. Fox's former girlfriend. Mr. Fox's grandmother, Beatrice, suffers from severe Alzheimer's disease. Her memory is stuck in the past, and she believes Mr. Fox is still engaged to Eveline. You share a thirty percent facial resemblance to Ms. Butler. With the right makeup and lighting, it will be enough to keep the elderly woman calm."

Aimee opened the folder. The heavy cardstock pages were filled with legal jargon. Her eyes caught the bolded addendums.

Clause 4: The Employee (Aimee Berry) is strictly forbidden from initiating any unscripted physical contact with the Employer (Cameron Fox).

Clause 5: The Employee must not harbor any emotional or romantic fantasies regarding the Employer. This is a purely commercial transaction.

Aimee didn't hesitate. She pulled a cheap plastic pen from her purse, flipped to the last page, and signed her name with a sharp, aggressive stroke. The pen tore slightly into the thick paper.

Cameron watched her swift movements. One of his dark eyebrows twitched upward.

"Tonight," Cameron said. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone that sent an involuntary shiver down Aimee's spine. "You will go to the Fox estate in Long Island. You will fulfill your first obligation."

By early evening, a black Maybach pulled up to the circular driveway of the Fox estate. The tires crunched softly against the pristine white gravel.

A chauffeur in a full uniform quickly stepped out and opened the rear door.

Aimee stepped out of the vehicle. Her breath hitched in her throat. The estate looked like a medieval castle, complete with sprawling manicured lawns and towering stone pillars. The sheer scale of the wealth pressed down on her shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Her footsteps faltered on the cobblestone path.

Cameron walked up beside her. He bent his arm at the elbow, a rigid, mechanical gesture.

"Take my arm," he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "And do not let your mask slip."

Aimee swallowed the lump of anxiety in her throat. She forced the corners of her mouth up, stretching her facial muscles into a sweet, gentle smile. She lightly placed her hand on the crook of his arm. Even through the thick fabric of his suit, she could feel the hard, unyielding muscle underneath.

They walked through the massive oak front doors.

In the center of the grand foyer sat an elderly woman in a custom wheelchair. When Beatrice heard their footsteps, her cloudy eyes suddenly widened. A spark of pure joy lit up her wrinkled face.

"Eveline!" Beatrice cried out, her voice trembling with emotion. "My sweet Eveline!"

Panic flared in Aimee's chest, hot and fast. She forced her legs to move forward. She practically jogged to the wheelchair and dropped to a half-crouch, bringing her face level with the elderly woman's.

"I'm here, Grandmother," Aimee said, softening her voice to a gentle murmur. She reached out and gently held Beatrice's frail, bony hands.

Beatrice raised a shaking hand and cupped Aimee's cheek. Her thumb brushed against Aimee's skin. "Oh, my dear girl. Why did Cameron take so long to bring you home?" Tears pooled in the old woman's eyes.

Cameron stood exactly one step away. He looked down at Aimee. He watched the way her eyes softened, the way she perfectly mimicked the gentle devotion of a loving fiancée. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his icy blue eyes. Her acting was flawless.

During dinner, the massive mahogany table felt miles long. Beatrice insisted on sitting right next to Aimee.

The elderly woman kept scooping food onto Aimee's plate. "Eat, Eveline. You are too thin," Beatrice mumbled happily.

Aimee stared at the pile of garlic butter shrimp on her plate. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. She was severely allergic to shellfish. Eating even one bite would cause her throat to swell shut within minutes. But the contract explicitly stated she must obey and cooperate completely. She couldn't break character. She couldn't cause a scene.

She picked up her silver fork. Her hand trembled slightly. She pierced a piece of shrimp and slowly lifted it toward her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Just as the shrimp neared her lips, a silver fork shot across the table.

Cameron smoothly reached across the table, picking up a pristine, unused silver serving spoon. With a swift, elegant motion, he intercepted her hand, sliding the shrimp off Aimee's fork and depositing it onto a discarded side plate.

Aimee's head snapped up. She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock.

Cameron didn't look at her. He kept his face completely blank and turned to his grandmother. "Eveline has been having stomach issues lately, Grandmother. The doctor told her to avoid seafood."

Beatrice nodded in understanding, instantly pulling the plate of shrimp away.

The crisis was averted. Aimee let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Her muscles turned to jelly.

Two hours later, Beatrice finally fell asleep in her bedroom.

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the sweet smile vanished from Aimee's face. It collapsed instantly. She reached up and massaged her jaw, the muscles cramping from holding the fake expression for so long.

Cameron reached into his inner suit pocket. He pulled out a sleek, heavy black metal credit card and held it out to her.

"This is the advance payment for tonight's performance," Cameron said coldly. "Buy yourself some decent clothes. I will not have you embarrassing the Fox family by dressing like a factory worker."

Aimee didn't argue. She didn't have the energy to defend her pride. She reached out, took the cold metal card, and shoved it into her cheap, faux-leather purse.

"Thank you," she said, her tone strictly business.

They walked out of the estate in silence. The cool night wind whipped across the lawn. Aimee wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a deep, hollow ache of exhaustion and isolation settling into her bones.

The chauffeur opened the rear door of the Maybach. Aimee ducked her head and slid into the dark, leather-scented cabin. Cameron followed immediately after, sitting on the opposite side. The heavy car door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The Maybach glided smoothly onto the Long Island Expressway. The moment the tires hit the asphalt, the thick soundproof partition behind the driver's seat hummed as it rose, sealing the rear cabin into an absolute, private void.

Aimee felt as if the invisible strings holding her upright had been violently severed. Her spine collapsed against the plush leather seat. She completely shed the gentle, refined persona of Eveline Butler.

She reached down, her fingers fumbling with the straps of her cheap heels. She kicked the shoes off. Her feet were throbbing, the skin on her heels rubbed raw and blistered from standing in the stiff material for hours. She pulled her aching legs up, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her skirt, completely ignoring the billionaire sitting less than two feet away from her.

Cameron turned his head slightly. His icy blue eyes swept over her curled-up posture. The muscle in his jaw feathered. He despised lack of decorum.

"Is this how you normally behave?" Cameron asked, his voice laced with a thin layer of disgust.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare. She turned her head and met his gaze head-on. Her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, but she didn't flinch.

"I am off the clock, Mr. Fox," Aimee said, her voice dry and raspy. "I read the contract thoroughly. It does not include private performances when your grandmother is not present."

Cameron's breath hitched slightly, choked by her blunt audacity. He let out a harsh, cold scoff, turning his face toward the tinted window. He didn't speak another word.

The silence in the cabin grew thick and suffocating.

Aimee dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her pale face. There was a new text message from her workshop's assistant manager. It was another frantic update about the loan sharks threatening to show up at dawn. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twisted violently in her gut.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting a faint metallic hint of blood. She turned her head to look at Cameron's sharp profile. She forced herself to take a deep breath, pushing down the massive wave of humiliation rising in her chest.

"When will the ten million dollar injection hit the workshop's account?" Aimee asked. Her voice wavered slightly, betraying her desperation.

Cameron tapped his long, manicured fingers against his knee. The rhythmic tapping sounded like a countdown in the quiet car.

"The disbursement of the trust funds is entirely dependent on the stability of your performance," Cameron stated, his tone dripping with oppressive authority. "If you slip up, the money stops."

Aimee's chest burned. The humiliation was a physical weight pressing down on her lungs. But logic forced her to swallow the anger. She needed him.

"I will fulfill my duties perfectly," Aimee forced the words out through gritted teeth.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen. He knew the exact amount that would keep her desperate enough to stay, yet relieved enough to perform flawlessly. He was buying her absolute, unwavering compliance, ensuring she understood that as long as she played her part perfectly, he held the keys to her salvation. A few seconds later, Aimee's phone buzzed violently in her hand.

She looked down. It was an alert from her banking app. A deposit of one hundred thousand dollars had just cleared into her personal checking account.

Aimee stared at the long string of zeros. Her eyes widened in pure shock. She looked up at Cameron, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Cameron didn't even bother to look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. "That is your bonus for successfully deceiving my grandmother tonight," he said, his tone making it sound like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. "And to ensure you buy clothes that don't smell like machine oil."

Aimee gripped her phone so tightly her fingers cramped. One hundred thousand dollars was life-saving money right now. It could pay off the immediate interest to the loan sharks and buy her father some time. She took her fragile pride, threw it on the floorboards, and crushed it.

"Thank you, boss," Aimee whispered, her voice hollow.

That single word-boss-reeked of transactional desperation. It hit Cameron's ears and sparked a sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation in his chest. He reached up and aggressively loosened his silk tie. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, pretending to sleep.

Aimee rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window. The adrenaline that had kept her going all night completely evaporated. The crushing weight of the impending bankruptcy, her father's failing health, and the sheer terror of this fake marriage crashed over her all at once.

The amber lights of the highway flickered across her face in a hypnotic rhythm. Aimee's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Her breathing slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic cycle.

The Maybach descended into the subterranean tunnel leading into Manhattan. The ambient light in the cabin vanished, plunging them into darkness.

Cameron opened his eyes. Without the distraction of the passing city, his gaze was drawn involuntarily to the woman sitting beside him.

Aimee was completely unconscious. As the heavy car navigated a slight curve in the tunnel, her body lost its balance. Her head bobbed once, twice, and then she slumped sideways, falling directly toward Cameron.

Cameron's muscles instantly coiled. His instinct was to raise his hand and shove her back to her side of the seat. He hated physical contact. He hated the invasion of his personal space.

But the moment his fingertips brushed against the fabric covering her shoulder, his hand froze in mid-air.

Aimee's head landed softly against his bicep. She let out a tiny, unconscious sigh. She rubbed her cheek against the expensive wool of his suit jacket, instinctively seeking out the warmth, and settled into a comfortable position.

Cameron's entire body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. A faint scent drifted up to his nose-a mixture of cheap vanilla body wash and the distinct, metallic tang of industrial machine oil. It was a scent that absolutely did not belong in his pristine world. It made his chest feel tight.

He looked down at her. In the dim light, he could see the dark, bruised-looking circles under her eyes. The harsh, defensive mask she wore while awake was completely gone. In sleep, she looked incredibly fragile, like a glass ornament on the verge of shattering.

Cameron's mind flashed to the background check Clara had handed him. It detailed how this woman had been working eighteen-hour days, trying to single-handedly save a sinking factory to protect her father's property. The icy contempt that usually resided in his eyes melted away, replaced by a strange, unsettling quiet.

The Maybach emerged from the tunnel. Up front, the chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, preparing to announce their arrival.

The driver's eyes met Cameron's in the reflection. Cameron's gaze was lethal. He shot the driver a look so full of dark warning that the man instantly snapped his mouth shut.

The driver immediately eased off the gas pedal, bringing the massive vehicle to a crawling, perfectly smooth pace as they entered the underground parking garage of the Upper East Side penthouse.

The car glided into its designated spot. The engine cut off with a soft click.

The cabin was dead silent. The only sound was the soft, even intake of Aimee's breath.

Cameron did not wake her. He sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his arm trapped beneath her weight. In the gloomy lighting of the concrete garage, he simply stared at this foreign invader who had crashed into his meticulously controlled life.

A sudden chill from the garage air seeped into the car. Aimee shivered in her sleep. She unconsciously shrank closer to the heat radiating from Cameron's body. Her hands moved, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his suit jacket near his waist.

Cameron looked down at her hands. He saw the small, rough calluses on her palms and fingertips-the physical proof of her manual labor.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation fluttered deep within his chest cavity. It was a tiny, rhythmic pulse of something that felt dangerously like empathy.

The low, mechanical hum of the underground garage's ventilation fans vibrated through the floorboards of the Maybach.

Aimee shifted in her sleep. The fabric pressed against her cheek felt unusually scratchy, entirely different from her cheap cotton pillowcases at home. She let out a soft groan and slowly fluttered her eyes open.

As her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a expanse of dark grey, bespoke wool. Then, a sharp, clean scent invaded her senses-cedarwood and expensive bergamot.

Aimee's nervous system violently snapped awake. Panic flooded her veins like ice water. She jerked her head up so fast that her forehead slammed directly into the solid, sharp angle of Cameron's jaw.

A deep, guttural grunt of pain ripped from Cameron's throat. His thick eyebrows crashed together. He brought a hand up to massage his jaw, his icy blue eyes glaring down at the woman who was currently scrambling away from him like a terrified rabbit.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" Aimee gasped, pressing her back against the opposite car door.

But the apology died in her throat. Her eyes darted to the spot on his shoulder where her head had just been resting.

There, on the shoulder of his Savile Row custom suit jacket-a garment that easily cost more than her car-was a distinct, dark, wet patch.

She had drooled on him.

All the blood in Aimee's body rushed to her face, burning her cheeks with a heat so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her stomach plummeted to her shoes. This was the absolute pinnacle of social death. She wanted to claw a hole through the floor of the Maybach and bury herself in the concrete.

Cameron followed her horrified gaze. He looked down at his shoulder.

When he registered the wet stain, his face turned the color of a thundercloud. His severe germaphobia flared, making his skin crawl. The air pressure inside the cabin seemed to drop to absolute zero.

He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ticked. He fought the overwhelming urge to rip the jacket off and hurl it out the window.

"Get out," Cameron commanded. The words were clipped, sharp as broken glass.

Aimee didn't need to be told twice. She fumbled blindly for the door handle, shoved it open, and practically tumbled out onto the freezing concrete floor of the garage. She stood there barefoot, holding her cheap heels, her hands shaking with mortification.

Cameron stepped out of the car with terrifying grace. His face was a mask of pure fury. He shrugged off the ruined suit jacket, not even sparing it a second glance, and tossed it directly into a nearby industrial trash can.

He didn't wait for her. He turned and strode toward the private elevator, his long legs eating up the distance.

Aimee stared at the trash can, her heart aching at the sheer waste of money. She quickly slipped her blistered feet back into her heels and jogged to catch up with him, slipping into the bright, mirrored elevator car just as the doors began to close.

The ride up to the penthouse was agonizingly silent.

The doors slid open to reveal a massive, minimalist foyer. Martha, the head housekeeper, was standing at attention. She stepped forward and respectfully took Cameron's leather briefcase.

Martha's eyes flicked between Cameron, who was now standing in just his crisp white dress shirt and vest, and Aimee, who looked like she had just survived a natural disaster. Martha was far too professional to ask questions.

"Would either of you care for a late-night snack?" Martha asked smoothly.

Aimee hadn't eaten a single bite of food at the Long Island estate. Right on cue, her empty stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl that echoed off the marble walls of the foyer.

Cameron stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head and looked at her as if she were an alien species.

Aimee instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, her toes curling inside her shoes. She wanted to die.

"Prepare two sandwiches," Cameron ordered Martha, his voice flat. He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his study, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Aimee was sitting on a high stool at the massive, cold marble island in the open-concept kitchen. She was ravenously devouring a gourmet ham and gruyere sandwich, practically swallowing the pieces whole.

The study door clicked open. Cameron walked out. He had changed into a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. He walked to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of iced water, and stood on the opposite side of the island.

He leaned against the counter, silently watching her chaotic eating habits.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare prickling her skin. She forced herself to slow her chewing, picking up a napkin to dab at her mouth, desperately trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity she had left.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone, which was resting on the marble counter, lit up. It buzzed aggressively. Three iMessage notifications popped up in rapid succession.

Aimee glanced at the screen. The sender was "Dad."

Her forced calm shattered. She dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto her plate.

She opened the messages. Burt's texts were furious. He was demanding to meet the "bastard" who had convinced his daughter to elope out of nowhere. He was questioning if she was being scammed or held hostage.

Aimee pressed her fingertips hard against her forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. She knew her father's stubborn, blue-collar pride. If she didn't bring Cameron to Brooklyn, Burt would absolutely take the subway to Manhattan and kick down the doors of the Fox Group.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her head and looked across the marble island at Cameron.

"Mr. Fox," Aimee started, her voice trembling with a desperate, pleading edge. "Are you... are you free this weekend? Could you please come back to Brooklyn with me?"

Cameron paused with the water glass halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. His icy eyes narrowed.

"Clause seven of our contract," Cameron stated, his voice a cold, unyielding wall. "I am obligated to perform for the Fox family. I am not obligated to entertain your relatives."

"My father's health is failing," Aimee pleaded, leaning forward over the counter, her hands clasped together. "He has a bad heart. He can't take the shock of thinking I'm in trouble. Please. Just one dinner. I'll deduct your hourly rate from the hundred thousand you gave me."

The mention of money flashed like a warning light in Cameron's eyes. His jaw tightened. He hated that she constantly reduced everything to a transaction, even though that was exactly what this was.

"Absolutely not," Cameron said coldly. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom corridor.

Aimee slumped against the high stool, the fight completely draining out of her.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Burt: If I don't see this husband of yours by Saturday, I am calling the NYPD.

Aimee buried her face in her arms against the cold marble counter. Surrounded by tens of millions of dollars worth of luxury, she had never felt more suffocated and entirely alone.