Fated for the Billionaire's Puppet

My best friend loved playing matchmaker. To proclaim her love for the city’s richest man to the world, she matched toothbrushes and slippers in her home. Even I became one of her paired items. “It’s called matching social status,” she’d declared. “My assistant and my husband’s special assistant—a match made in heaven!” In my previous life, because of this absurd pairing, Lucas was forced to marry me. For three years after our marriage, he treated me wonderfully, doting on me, making me believe I had truly married for love. Until I suffered severe hemorrhage during childbirth after ten months, desperately begging him to come to the hospital to sign for surgery. His contemptuous laughter echoed through the phone: “A beggar’s bastard, does it even deserve my signature?” I was chilled to the bone, listening as he meticulously negated three years of our relationship: “Weren’t you willing to play along with your best friend’s matchmaking games?