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.