The Billionaire's Son They Betrayed A Revenge Unveiled

My wife was raped and murdered. To avenge her, I drove a knife into her killer's stomach seven times. The sentence: ten years.

Three years later, I walked out early on good behavior. My father—the richest man in Havenport—slid an inheritance contract across the table. I tore it in half and chose to work as a private chef instead.

The first job I picked up sent me to an address that stopped me cold.

It was the crime scene where my wife had been killed. Our home. Our marital home.

I cooked in a daze, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind spiraled. Then I heard keys rattling in the front door lock.

I looked up.

A woman walked in—smiling, laughing—and she looked exactly like my wife.

...

I couldn't move. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it would tear through my throat.

She was holding a man's hand, beaming with happiness as they strolled toward the dining table in the kitchen.

I knew that man.

Cyril Jennings. The defense attorney who'd represented me in the rape-and-murder case.

Cyril caught her arm before she could sit down, grinning as he pulled a ring from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.

Their friends crowded around, whistling and cheering. Panic surged through me. I shot to my feet.

"You can't marry him!"

She turned. The look she gave me was blank—confused, distant, like I was a stranger.

Cyril's expression shifted the moment he recognized me. His face went dark. "Francis Gilbert? What the hell are you doing here?!"

His gaze dropped to the grease-stained chef's uniform clinging to my body, and the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Well, well. Looks like the great Mr. Gilbert is out of prison—and he's our cook for the evening."

Snickers rippled through the room.

"Wait—he's the guy whose wife got raped? The one who killed the attacker?"

"This is priceless. He used to be a big shot—you couldn't walk down the street without people stopping to shake his hand. Now he's serving us dinner!"

Cyril took her right hand in his and dropped to one knee, smiling up at her.

"Relax, Mr. Gilbert. Kathleen Fox isn't your dead wife. She's the woman who's about to become my wife."

Kathleen Fox stood there, eyes bright with laughter, pressing one hand playfully over Cyril's mouth while extending the other toward him.

"You don't need to say another word. Yes. I do."

My wife loved me more than life itself.

If she were still alive, she would never—never—accept another man's proposal.

But this woman looked like her. Sounded like her...

I was drowning in it, torn apart, when my gaze drifted up without thinking.

Kathleen had pushed her sleeve back, and there, on the exposed stretch of her forearm—a small, heart-shaped birthmark.

My heart seized.

That birthmark was unique to my wife. One of a kind. No one else in the world had it.

I lunged forward, grabbed Kathleen's hand, and pointed at the mark on her arm.

"This birthmark—have you had it since birth?"

Cyril seized the front of my shirt and wrenched me backward, slamming me onto the couch.

He jabbed a finger at my face. "Francis, you've cooked the food. Now get out."

"I'm proposing to my girlfriend. Interfere again and see what happens."

I got back up and gripped Kathleen's arm, holding on tight.

"Kathy—did you lose your memory? How can you not remember me?"

"Let me take you to the hospital. Please..."

Kathleen wrenched free, her face cold as stone.

My wife was an only child.

I refused to believe two people in this world could look that identical.

I tried to convince Kathleen to come to the hospital for a DNA test.

Cyril stepped in front of me, raised his hand, and cracked his palm across my face. He pressed his finger against the tip of my nose.

"Francis Gilbert, you grease-stained cook—open your eyes and look around. This is my house now. Not yours. Not anymore."

This house had been our home—mine and my wife's.

After she died, I couldn't bear to stay. I hired an agent to sell it so I wouldn't have to live surrounded by her ghost.

I never imagined the buyer would turn out to be Cyril Jennings—a student I'd once pulled out of poverty and put through school.

And I never imagined that a woman who could be my wife's mirror image would appear in the home we'd once shared.