The Billionaire's Caged Wife I Found Love After You

On Valentine's Day, the Harbor City tabloids ran a front-page spread on the crown prince himself.

Rising Supermodel Tests Stamina — 13 vs. 15, Edwards Narrowly Loses to His Buddy

The photos showed a hotel room in shambles, littered with the evidence of twenty-eight used condoms. Split evenly between Bertram Edwards and his friend. The next morning, someone had counted. Bertram's tally: thirteen.

The day after the story broke, the rising supermodel posted coyly on social media:

"It's only because he felt bad for me last night — said I looked too tired, so he conceded. Otherwise? He wasn't even close to done."

I knew Bertram had always been competitive.

Back when a mainland tycoon offered a billion dollars to buy both my paintings and me, Bertram flew into a rage and dropped ten billion to take me — along with every last asset that tycoon owned — back to Harbor City.

That was how the city got its favorite metaphor: the "billion-dollar bride." Proof, supposedly, of how much the Edwards family valued their new wife.

Bertram had even played along with the tabloid circus this time, commenting: "What can I say? Once you marry her, you've got to take care of her. At my pace, I'd wreck her. Better to eat my fill elsewhere before heading home."

And just like that, the whole city understood. No wonder I'd never gotten pregnant. The crown prince had brought me home as nothing more than a trophy wife.

The same day the story dropped, the supermodel posted a photo of a pregnancy test — two pink lines, clear as day.

"One shot was all it took with Mr. Edwards."

Now all of Harbor City was laughing, betting the billion-dollar bride was crying her eyes out.

I didn't want to disappoint them. So I went to the supermodel's comment section and posted my baby's one-month photo.

"Sorry for the late reply — I've been on maternity rest. My boyfriend doesn't like me spending too much time on my phone."

……

Before I posted that, Bertram hadn't come home in two months.

Harbor City wasn't that big, when you thought about it. East side to west side, no traffic, two hours tops.

The truth was simple: he just didn't want to come back.

At first, I couldn't get used to it. A three-story mansion all to myself. The emptiness was suffocating.

The tabloids loved it, of course. "Billion-Dollar Bride Alone in Her Wedding Home" — each headline more pitiful than the last.

Every once in a while, Bertram would swing by to offer a line or two of explanation. He'd sit on the sofa, a freshly lit cigarette pinched between his fingers.

"Cheryl Henson, after all these years, you still haven't figured out how to be a proper wife to a man like me?"

"Do I need to teach you myself?"

He lifted his gaze to meet mine, his expression unreadable. "You're a smart woman, Cheryl."

That was him giving me a hint.

He'd never been one to waste words. He said just enough and left the rest for you to figure out.

And after all these years of reading between his lines, I finally understood what kind of wife he'd wanted all along.

Pretty. Polished. Graceful. Gentle.

And above all else — strong enough, forgiving enough, to look the other way while he kept every woman he wanted on the side.

So now, because of my comment, he'd finally remembered he had a home to come back to.

He sat on the sofa, unhurried, and lit a cigarette.

"Cheryl, I always thought you were the obedient one. What's this? Picking up tricks from those other women, trying to start something with me?"

"Delete the comment. It's a bad look."

From the day I'd chosen to be with him, I really had been the obedient one. No tears, no tantrums, no fighting, no demanding. And somehow, that was exactly how I'd ended up as Mrs. Edwards.

So he didn't believe my comment. He assumed I was throwing a tantrum to get his attention.

The crown prince of Harbor City, after all, had more than enough confidence for that.

I reached over and snuffed out his cigarette. "The secondhand smoke clings to me. It's bad for my baby."

He went still. Then he slammed the lighter down on the marble coffee table with a sharp crack. "Are you done? Is this fun for you?"

"Forget whether I believe it. You probably don't even believe it yourself."

"What did the doctor say after the avalanche? Have you already forgotten?"