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Chantal Lewis's family legacy was twenty-four hours away from a fifty-million-dollar foreclosure. Desperate to save her parents, she sold her soul, offering herself as a paper wife to Dell Valdez, a ruthless Wall Street billionaire needing a quick PR fix. But Dell didn't just buy her; he trapped her in a living nightmare. He forced her into a brutal three-year repayment plan she could never afford, treated her like a disposable prop, and deliberately leaked a scandalous paparazzi photo to destroy her hard-earned professional credibility. Worst of all, the first time his calloused hand touched hers, a violent, terrifying flashback assaulted her brain. The scorching heat of his palms and the distinct, dark scent of his cedarwood cologne perfectly matched the repressed memory of a pitch-black room where she was pinned to a mattress against her will. Chantal didn't understand why her cold-blooded fake husband felt exactly like the monster from her unspoken trauma. She understood even less why, after months of ignoring her, he was suddenly acting violently jealous and possessive when she merely smiled at another man! Why did his scent match her attacker, and what was he truly planning? Furious, she called him to threaten a divorce, only for his voice to drop into a lethal whisper. "Try it. See what happens." Before she could process his deadly threat, her office phone rang. "Ms. Lewis," her receptionist trembled. "Your brother is in the lobby. He owes money to some very bad people, and they are coming here right now."
Contents
The Billionaire's Secret Paper Wife Chapter 1
The final notice from the bank feels like a physical weight in Chantal Lewis's hand.
She sits in the driver's seat of her rusted Honda Civic, staring at the bold red letters printed across the top of the page. Notice of Intent to Foreclose. Fifty million dollars. That is what Lumina Jewelry, her family's legacy, owes.
Her chest tightens. The air in the car suddenly feels too thin to breathe.
Chantal takes a sharp breath, her lungs burning, and crushes the thick paper into a tight ball. She shoves it into the glove compartment and slams it shut.
She forces her hand to the ignition. She turns the key. The engine sputters, coughing violently before settling into a loud, uneven hum. She pulls out into the aggressive flow of Manhattan traffic, her knuckles stark white against the worn steering wheel.
She parks the car near a corner café in SoHo. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and checks the location sharing app. Her best friend, Niamh Connolly, is supposed to be right here.
Chantal pushes the car door open. A blast of freezing November wind hits her, whipping the hem of her cheap beige trench coat against her legs.
She walks toward the glass doors of the café, but a movement in the narrow, shadowed alleyway to her left catches her eye.
She hears a laugh. It is a deep, familiar, flirting sound.
Chantal stops walking. Her stomach drops.
She turns her head, squinting into the gloom. She steps closer to the red brick wall, her cheap heels making no sound on the damp pavement.
Through the shadows, the shapes become clear. Chet Jankowski, Niamh's boyfriend of three years, has a blonde woman pinned against the brick wall. His hands are tangled in her hair, his mouth aggressively attached to hers.
Chantal recognizes the blonde instantly. It is Brandi, a girl from their college alumni group.
Bile rises in the back of Chantal's throat. The sheer disgust temporarily overrides the crushing anxiety of her fifty-million-dollar debt.
She does not hesitate. She pulls her phone from her pocket, raises it, and points the camera directly at them.
She taps the screen to focus. She presses the capture button three times in rapid succession.
Because the alley is so dark, the automatic flash triggers. Three blinding bursts of white light explode in the narrow space, illuminating the dirty bricks and the two tangled bodies.
Chet and Brandi jump apart as if struck by lightning.
Brandi gasps, her hands flying up to cover her face. She scrambles to pull her blouse up over her shoulder.
Chet whips his head around. His eyes are wide with panic, but the moment he registers that it is Chantal standing there, the fear vanishes. It is immediately replaced by a dark, ugly sneer.
Brandi does not say a word. She keeps her face covered and squeezes past Chantal, running out of the alley as fast as her heels will allow.
Chet straightens his tie. He takes a slow, menacing step toward Chantal, reaching out to grab her phone.
Chantal steps back just as quickly. She slides the phone deep into her coat pocket. She lifts her chin, her eyes completely dead.
Chet drops his hand. He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh.
"What are you going to do, Chantal?" Chet sneers, stepping closer. "You think you have the moral high ground? Everyone knows the Lewis family is going under. You're bankrupt."
Chantal's jaw clenches. Her nails dig into the palms of her hands.
"Deep in debt," Chet spits the words out like poison. "You can't even save yourself. You're pathetic."
Chantal does not blink. She does not let him see the way her heart is hammering against her ribs.
"Niamh will have these photos in exactly five minutes," Chantal says. Her voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. "You can leave now."
Chet glares at her. The absolute coldness in her eyes makes him stop. He curses loudly, turns around, and kicks a metal trash can. The loud crash echoes in the alley as he storms off in the opposite direction.
The moment he is out of sight, Chantal's shoulders slump. She closes her eyes and leans back against the cold brick wall, trying to force oxygen into her lungs.
Her phone starts vibrating violently against her thigh.
She pulls it out. It is her mother, Marilyn.
Chantal swipes to answer. Before she can even say hello, her mother's hysterical sobbing fills her ear.
"They are here, Chantal!" Marilyn screams, her voice cracking. "The bank's final ultimatum arrived! They said if they do not see the money today, they are initiating the foreclosure process tomorrow! You have to do something!"
Chantal presses her lips together so hard she tastes a metallic tang of blood.
"I am handling it, Mom," Chantal says. Her voice is steady, a complete lie. "I will have the money today. Just stay in your room."
She hangs up the phone before her mother can say another word.
She turns and walks out of the alley. She walks straight to her Honda Civic and gets in.
She pulls up the GPS on her phone. She deletes the route back to her office and types in a new destination. The most prominent address on Wall Street.
She throws the car into drive. The tires screech against the asphalt. She drives straight toward the Valdez Corp global headquarters.
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