The Billionaire's Dead Wife

“Your remarks are in two minutes, Mr. Wolfe,” Thomas reminded him, stepping closer as the applause around them began to fade. “The board is expecting you to announce the pediatric wing.”

Roman Wolfe huffed, he wanted the night to be over before it started.

The week had been a disaster. The Meridian acquisition was bleeding support on the board, two investors had threatened to pull out by Friday, and his chief financial officer had used the word catastrophic in a way that was not hyperbole. The annual Wolfe Foundation gala was the last thing he had time for, but the board insisted that optics mattered and his mom, Vivian, had reminded him that Isabella would have expected him to show up.

Isabella…..

Three years after losing her, Roman had perfected the art of moving through the world without feeling it. He was the ruthless billionaire who did not allow emotions to interfere with business. He signed condolences with a fountain pen and never missed a quarterly call. He survived on routine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, standing at the center of the Grand Regency ballroom. Crystal chandeliers threw light across marble floors, and three hundred guests in black tie watched him with the kind of attention that was bought and paid for. “Thanks to your generosity, the Wolfe Foundation will fund a new pediatric wing at Mercy General.”

Applause swelled, and Roman smiled on cue. It never reached his eyes.

He scanned the crowd out of habit. Assess, catalog, control. That was when he saw her, and his lungs forgot to function.

She was near the east bar, crouched with a camera raised to her eye, framing a shot of two elderly donors. Dark hair pulled back in a loose twist. She was wearing a black dress. No jewelry except a thin silver chain. She moved through the crowd like she belonged there and did not care if she did.

Roman’s hand tightened around the podium.

For three seconds, his brain refused to process what his eyes were telling him.

Exhaustion played tricks. Grief played worse ones. He had spent the first year after the storm, seeing Isabella in airports, in coffee shops, in the back of black cars that never stopped. He had learned to dismiss it.

But the more he observed her, the harder it became to ignore the impossible resemblance. It was not simply her appearance. It was the way she smiled at guests, polite and distant in a way that said she was comfortable being alone in a room full of people. It was the way she tilted her head while adjusting her camera settings. It was the way she absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind her ear when concentrating. And most specifically, her habit of chewing her left inner cheek. That was Isabella’s signature style.

She looked at his direction twice…..or maybe thrice, and found him staring at her, he realized that but couldn't look away.

“Mr. Wolfe?” Thomas murmured at his shoulder. “Sir?”

Roman set the microphone back in its stand. “We will continue the announcement after the auction,” he announced, his tone clipped. Confused murmurs rose from the audience, but he was already stepping down from the stage. He was not in a condition to talk to anyone anymore.

He moved through the ballroom without excusing himself. His pulse was uneven, and a cold weight had settled behind his ribs. Several guests tried to stop him to say their greetings. He ignored all of them.

His mother, Vivian, was near the front, speaking with the mayor’s wife. She saw his expression and her own smile faltered.

“Roman,” she called out, concern threading through her voice. “What is wrong?”

He did not answer. He could not. His attention was fixed on the photographer who had just straightened and turned toward the string quartet. The light caught her profile, and the air left his lungs.

It was the same line of her jaw. The same curve of her mouth. The same hazel eyes that had been flecked with green when she was amused.

Isabella was dead……

The Coast Guard had searched for nine days. The yacht had been recovered in pieces. He had buried an empty casket.

Yet his body moved toward her like his soul recognized her right away.

The photographer sensed him and turned, camera lowering, and her eyes met his. She offered him a polite, professional smile.

“Sorry,” she was startled, taking a small step back. “Did you need a photo? I’m covering the event for City Arts, but if the Foundation needs something specific—”

“Who are you?” Roman interrupted, his voice mixed with unnamed emotions. The question came out rougher, scraped raw from somewhere he kept locked down.

She blinked, and a faint crease appeared between her brows. “Maya,” she replied, shifting her camera strap higher on her shoulder. The movement was so familiar that Roman’s throat closed. “Maya Carter….. Your secretary hired me for the coverage. Aren't you Roman Wolfe?” She gestured at him with a frown.

“Maya,” he repeated in a whisper. That name was wrong for this face.

Vivian appeared at his side then. “Roman,” she said quietly, her hand touching his arm. “You left the stage. People are—”

But then she stopped.

Maya had turned toward the sound of Vivian’s voice, and for the first time, his mother saw her face.

The color drained from Vivian’s cheeks, her body went cold. Both mother and son were light struck now, looking frozen in time.

May looked around nervously, a waiter passed between them with a tray of champagne. She reached for a glass, trying to do something with her hands and her fingers brushed the stem. She missed it and the glass slipped, hit the marble, and shattered.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” she exclaimed instantly, crouching to pick up the larger pieces. She looked up at Roman, embarrassed and flushed. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I swear I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

Roman went completely still. If there were any doubts left in his mind, this sentence drowned them all! He wasn't hallucinating anymore!

He had not heard that phrase in three years. Isabella said it every time she knocked over a glass, every time she burned dinner trying to learn how to cook for him. “I swear I wasn’t raised in a barn.” It was her mother’s saying. Then it was hers.

“Ms. Carter,” Vivian managed to say. Her voice was thin.

Maya stood, holding the broken stem, and offered Vivian a confused smile. “I’m sorry about the glass. I’ll—”

She did not finish. She was looking at Vivian’s face.

Roman followed his mother’s gaze. Vivian was staring at Maya like she was seeing a ghost. Her lips parted, and her hand came up to her throat. She took a step back, and then another, as if the floor had tilted under her.

“Mother,” Roman said sharply.

Vivian did not look at him. She could not look away from Maya. Her breathing had turned shallow, and her eyes were wide with something that was not a surprise. It was panic. Genuine, unmistakable panic.

Maya frowned. “Are you alright?” she asked Vivian standing up.

Vivian’s lips moved, but no sound came out at first. Then she whispered, “That’s…..impossible.”