Marriage with the Dying Billionaire

My breath hitched as the words sank in. My best friend. My ex-husband. The two people I had once trusted more than anyone had conspired against me. I stepped back, feeling my stomach twist with a sickening churn of emotions. In my retreat, my elbow struck the edge of a glass vase—a priceless piece they had won at an auction. It wobbled, then crashed to the floor with an earsplitting shatter. The room fell into stunned silence. Sharon’s eyes widened in shock. Pierre’s expression turned cold. And then, Sharon, standing just behind him, asked the inevitable question. “Who helped you escape the prison?” I ignored her. Although my focus was locked on her. My palm burned with fury before I even realized I had raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room. “Y-You betrayed me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “You were my best friend, Sharon.” Sharon, clutching her cheek, let out a bitter laugh. “And you were blind, Dionne. You never saw the truth.” She turned her gaze toward Pierre, and that was when the final blow landed. “Pierre never loved you. Our relationship started long before your marriage. It was all for your wealth—the inheritance your father left you.” I felt my chest tighten, suffocated by the weight of betrayal. I turned to Pierre, hoping for denial, some desperate excuse. But he simply shrugged. “She’s right,” he said, voice devoid of remorse. “You were just a means to an end, Dionne. And I never wanted a child with you. I only needed your fortune.” I staggered back as if struck. My whole marriage, my life—it had all been a lie. Anguish welled up inside me, but before I could react, Pierre pulled out his phone. He dialed with ease, his voice calm. “Hello? Yes. My ex-wife is here. She escaped prison. Send the police.” Panic surged through me. My mind raced for an escape, but then— BOOM. An explosion rocked the house. The ground trembled beneath us. Smoke filled the hallways, and the chandelier above shook violently. Fire erupted from the far end of the mansion, swallowing furniture and décor in its path. Sharon screamed, clutching Pierre’s arm. “What the hell is happening?!” The answer didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they ran, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the chaos. My ears rang from the explosion, my body frozen. But before the flames could consume me, strong hands grabbed my wrist. “Come on!” Francis. His grip was firm, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. He pulled me through the collapsing house, past burning debris, until we burst into the garden. There, parked on the open lawn, was a sleek black helicopter. We climbed in as the rotors roared to life. Just as the police sirens became audible in the distance, we lifted into the sky, escaping into the night. Inside the helicopter, I stared at Francis, my mind still reeling. “Why?” I asked breathlessly. “Why are you helping me? Is it really just because you want me to be your surrogate?” He didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched until the city lights blurred beneath us, fading into the darkness. Half an hour later, we landed safely at his mansion. Days passed in a strange, quiet lull. Francis offered me comfort—his presence steady, his words few but reassuring. And for the first time, I let myself breathe. But curiosity gnawed at me. I needed to know more about the man who had risked so much for me. One evening, I found the courage to ask. “Who are you, really?” Francis studied me for a long moment before exhaling deeply. “I was once a Mafia Boss.” My breath caught. He continued, his tone even, but laced with something distant. “I built an empire—businesses, power, influence. But my family abandoned me when they found out I had cancer. They thought I was too weak to lead, so they cut me off. Left me with nothing.” His eyes darkened, shadows of the past flickering across his face. I felt a sharp pang in my chest. “Cancer?” “Stage 2 Leukemia,” he confirmed. “And the treatments… they left me barren.” He took off his wig. The weight of his words settled over me. He had lost everything—just like I had. Without thinking, I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. He didn’t pull away. Over the next month, a strange routine formed. Francis, despite everything, treated me with care. He asked me to stay—to play the role of his wife. And while I never saw it as romantic, I honored his request. I took care of him when his health wavered, stayed by his side through the difficult nights. I told myself it was just a temporary arrangement, just a means to survive. But then, one day, he shattered that illusion. Francis knelt before me, a ring in his hand. “Marry me, Dionne.”

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but strong enough to make Francis crumble with relief. He smiled through the tears pooling in his eyes. "Thank you... Thank you. I don’t know how much time I have left, but this means everything." It wasn’t love—not yet. It was mercy. A dying man begging for companionship in what he believed were his final days. And maybe, in some twisted way, I needed this too—to feel wanted, useful, and perhaps even capable of healing. Weeks passed in quiet anticipation. Francis' team of private doctors put me through a series of tests. Good thing, Francis is smart enough to store a sperm before he got diagnosed by a deadly cancer. Despite my past miscarriages, the results were in my favor. I was still viable for surrogacy. The procedure was done with utmost secrecy and success. Life grew inside me—a life I hadn’t expected to carry, but one that would eventually change everything. Soon after, Francis handed me a document. An NDA. "You’ll need to change your appearance," he said carefully. "For your safety… and for mine. The business world wouldn’t take kindly to me marrying a convicted fugitive." I stared at the paper for a long time, then signed it. I knew the old Dionne Carté had to die for me to live again. Nine months passed in concealment. My body swelled with life. I stayed hidden in the countryside villa Francis owned, with only doctors and trusted staff around. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, we named him Frederick Troillan. The moment I saw his eyes—so much like Francis'—I knew something in me had shifted. My body was tired, aching, but in the small, cooing bundle pressed against my chest, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: peace. He was perfect. He was untouched by the world’s cruelty. Shortly after, I underwent the operation. A complete transformation. My reflection in the mirror no longer showed the woman who had wept in a jail cell or stood broken in a burning mansion. I was Wayna Scott now. Every trace of Dionne had been erased—from the contours of my face down to the way I carried myself. And then, I spent a few months in changing my behaviors and the way how I speak. I made sure that I mastered my new personality. Francis, always true to his word, introduced me to the public as his fiancée a few months later. The media went wild. He became the face of resilience and mystery—the tycoon who’d found love again. Investors swarmed. His empire grew stronger. Every magazine wanted a piece of our love story. We posed for press photos, smiled at galas, played the perfect couple. And while the world cheered, I remained haunted by the truth. I wasn’t just hiding from the law—I was hiding from myself. One night, I was walking through the corridor to fetch a glass of wine when I heard him crying softly in his office. Without knocking, I stepped inside. "Francis?" He looked up, surprised, but didn’t try to hide his tears. I sat beside him, taking his hand. “I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. But I knew better. Then came the words I never expected. “The doctors called. I’m now... cancer-free.” DAMN! Finally, our son can grow up with a Dad beside him. Tears welled up in my own eyes. The weight he’d been carrying, the silent agony, the uncertainty—all of it vanished in that moment. I felt something bloom inside me. Something I’d buried deep beneath layers of trauma and survival. I smiled and whispered, “I’m happy for you. I think… I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.” We hugged each other tightly. Francis didn’t hesitate. Days later, he began planning our wedding. He wanted it grand. Lavish. A celebration of survival, of rebirth. Everything felt perfect—until it didn’t. One afternoon, while Francis was in a heated discussion with the wedding organizer, his phone rang. He gestured for me to answer it. “Hello?” Silence. Then a raspy voice on the other end. "I know the truth. I know your fiancée's secret." My blood turned to ice. I didn’t tell Francis. I couldn’t. Not yet. NOT IN OUR UPCOMING SPECIAL DAY! The voice haunted me for days. Who was it? What did they know? And most of all—what would they do with that information? I threw myself into wedding preparations, pushing the call to the back of my mind. But doubt gnawed at me. The night before the ceremony, I finally confronted him. “How did you know about me? That I was scheduled to be executed?” He hesitated, then sighed. "I saw your case in the news. The murder of the farmers. Your face haunted every channel. I did my research, and I believed you were innocent. Once we’re married, I promise—I’ll help you find the real mastermind." That promise lit a spark of hope in me. Maybe, finally, justice would be within reach. Maybe I wasn’t just running—I was heading toward something that could set me free. The morning of the wedding arrived in a blur of silk, perfume, and nervous excitement. I wore a custom gown, my newly transformed face glowing in the soft morning light. The gown shimmered like moonlight, delicate lace brushing my ankles as I stepped into the limousine. I stared out the window, watching the city pass like a dream. We arrived at the cathedral just past noon. Guests were already inside. The media waited outside, hungry for photos. Francis had spared no expense. As the music began and I stepped into the aisle, I felt like I was walking toward redemption. The church was vast—pillars climbing toward a golden dome, sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Every step I took echoed through the silence. Eyes turned to me. Whispers followed. But just before the ceremony could begin, the church doors burst open. Police in full gear swarmed the aisle. The music screeched to a halt. Gasps filled the air. “Stop this,” the lead officer barked, stepping forward. “Ms. Dionne Carté, you are under arrest.” The world tilted. My bouquet hit the marble floor.

The wedding that was supposed to seal my new life ended in chaos. Gasps rippled through the church like a storm when the police marched in, guns holstered, voices raised. All eyes turned to me—not as a bride, but as a criminal. I stood frozen in place, still clutching my bouquet, heart slamming against my ribs. My veil trembled like the lies it was hiding. Whispers spread like wildfire. “That’s her? The murderer? ” “Isn’t that Dionne Carté?” “They say she faked her death.” The ceremony was cancelled before the priest could speak a word. But I didn’t resist. I didn’t run. I simply lowered my gaze and stepped forward, calm and composed as I let the officers escort me into their black car. Because I was no longer Dionne Carté-Pierré. I was Wayna Scott. At the precinct, I was taken to a gray-walled interrogation room. One investigator, cold-eyed and clean-shaven, sat across from me with a thick file on the table. “We’ve received reports that you match the physical profile of Dionne Carté. You have anything to say about that?” I smiled politely, every movement practiced. “I think you have the wrong person. I’m Wayna Scott. You can check my records. Birthplace: New Haven. Mother: deceased. Father: John Scott, also deceased. I’ve worked under Troillan Construction as a logistics analyst for the past year.” He studied me with suspicion, probing for cracks. But I was airtight. I had memorized every fabricated detail Francis had trained me on. From fake childhood trauma to my fake college diploma—I’d become someone else entirely. After several hours of questioning and background checks, they let me go. There were no fingerprints matching Dionne’s. No DNA records they could pull. I’d passed. In the parking lot, I found Francis leaning against his car, arms crossed, tension carved deep into his face. I rushed toward him. “They let me go. I followed every line we rehearsed.” He didn’t smile. “They’re coming,” he said simply. My blood turned to ice. “Who?” “My family.” Of course. The mafia. But why? We didn’t talk further. Just drove home in silence, the hum of the engine masking the thunder in my chest. Over the next few weeks, Francis transformed the mansion into a fortress. Motion sensors were installed. Biometric locks. Armed guards stationed at every entrance. We doubled the security around Frederick. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone even brushing against his crib. Meanwhile, Francis fought to keep the Troillan Construction Empire from crumbling. There were whispers among investors, suspicions about us, rumors about my arrest. To stabilize the waters, Francis publicly postponed our wedding and held emergency meetings to reassure stakeholders. But then he came to me with something I never expected. “I’m going to invest in Pierré Gadot’s Real Estate group.” I nearly dropped my wine glass. “What? Are you insane?! He’ll recognize me!” Francis sat across from me, calm and calculated. “This is our chance to gain access—to get closer. You want revenge? You want the truth? This is how we get it.” I hated it. I hated Pierre. I hated how my hands still shook at the mention of his name. But Francis wasn’t wrong. We’d been hiding too long. So I nodded. “If this backfires, we’re both dead.” Two days later, we walked into a sleek marble-floored lobby for the signing of the investment deal. And there they were—Pierre and Sharon. Married. Seeing them side by side was like watching my past twist a dagger into my spine. Sharon wore an expensive pearl dress, her smile venomous. Pierre looked at me with a hint of curiosity, then a nod. He didn’t recognize me. I was no longer Dionne in his eyes—just Wayna, Francis’s silent fiancée. The four of us smiled for the cameras, posed with fake ease. Business first, murder second. For the next few months, we played our roles perfectly. Francis and I attended dinners with them, laughed at their shallow jokes, shook hands on construction projects. I stood feet away from the man who ruined my life, who discarded me like garbage, and he didn’t see it. He didn’t see me. Until he did. It was a Thursday night when I received a message from Francis. It read: “Meet me at Maison de Rouge. I have the full story. The truth about the farmers’ deaths.” I didn’t hesitate. I wore a black coat and left quietly. I was trembling—not from fear, but hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe we could finally close the chapter and move on. But when I arrived… it wasn’t Francis waiting for me. It was Pierre. He was seated at a table in the center of the empty restaurant, swirling a glass of red wine. Every chair was empty. The staff was gone. I froze. “W-Where is Francis?” He looked up slowly, his smile predatory. “I knew it! You’re that bitch ex-wife of mine, right?” I flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, don’t play dumb,” he sneered. “You thought a nose job and dyed hair would fool me? I always knew it was you. I was just waiting for the right moment.” My throat dried. I backed a step. “WHERE'S FRANCIS?” “That’s what you should be worried about.” He leaned forward, voice low. “Francis will be handed to his family tonight.” I blinked. “W-What? You know his family? Then that means…” The blood drained from my face. “Y-You’re part of the mafia?” Pierre chuckled darkly, then leaned back in his chair, savoring my horror like a fine drink. “Not just part of it,” he said slowly. “I’m the replacement for your lovely husband. The mafia organization needed a new leader. One not dying of cancer.” “No,” I whispered. “You’re lying.” “And one more thing, sweetheart,” he added. “I’m taking Frederick. The family wants him too. We're planning something." He chuckled. NO! FUCK YOU, PIERRE! “W-What are you planning?" I asked with a trembling voice.

Pierre’s lips curled into a cruel smirk as he turned away, casually adjusting his cufflinks like none of this mattered—like my world hadn’t just been obliterated by his words. He didn’t even look back as he walked toward the restaurant doors. But I wasn’t done. A furious heat surged through my body, and before I even realized what I was doing, I grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it with all the strength I had left. The crash was thunderous. The chair missed by inches, smashing into the wall behind him. Pierre spun around, face darkening with rage. He stormed toward me like a bullet. I braced myself. His hand collided with my cheek so hard my vision blurred. “You pathetic, worthless bitch,” he hissed. “You were never anything more than a rich pawn—a golden ticket your father handed to me.” I staggered back, heart hammering, but he wasn’t done. “You think those miscarriages were just fate?” he whispered coldly. “Sharon and I planned them all. Stress, threats, trauma—every time you started to hope for a family, we took it away.” I felt my knees give way. My lungs refused to draw breath. The pain of every loss I had endured came crashing into me all at once. Then—the click of metal. He pulled a gun from beneath his jacket, pointing it directly at my chest. “Let’s make sure you don’t cause more trouble,” he growled. The barrel gleamed under the restaurant lights, steady in his cruel hands. I thought this was it. That everything would end here, in the hands of the man who destroyed me. But then, the door creaked open. A tall man in a dark overcoat and wide-brimmed hat stepped inside, his presence as chilling as the air that followed him. Pierre immediately lowered the gun. “Dad,” he said. My heart dropped. The man’s sharp eyes met mine, and I knew his name as printed on his elegant walking stick. Don Victorio. Francis’s father. In silence, more men entered the restaurant. Suited, grim-faced, ruthless. One of them grabbed my arm. Another struck me across the back of the neck. I kicked and screamed, but it was no use. Then came a sharp sting—electric shock ripping through my body. My world went black. I awoke tied to a metal post in the center of a grand stage. Dim lighting flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows. A velvet curtain framed the room. In front of me, a crowd filled the seats, silent and watching. They wore masks—elaborate, jeweled, porcelain. I couldn’t see their faces. But I felt their eyes. "Welcome to tonight’s exclusive auction," a voice boomed from the stage speakers. I tried to scream, but my mouth was taped. My heart pounded against my ribs as the bidding began. “We start at $1 million.” My body trembled with disbelief. “Two million.” “Five.” “Seven.” The numbers climbed, each call colder than the last. I was no longer a person. I was property. I felt tears trace down my cheeks. Not from fear. From the unbearable shame. The humiliation. And the betrayal. An hour passed. Finally, a voice from the back called out, calm and powerful: “Ten million.” Gasps echoed through the room. The auctioneer stilled, then banged the gavel. “Sold.” Everything moved fast after that. Hands untied me, shoved me through a door behind the stage. Down a hallway. Into a private room with velvet walls and candlelit corners. Waiting inside was a woman dressed in a sleek navy gown, her hair silver but elegant, swept into a bun. Her mask had been removed. I knew that face. My jaw dropped. “You,” I gasped. “You’re the woman from the prison—you asked me about my story.” She nodded. “And you told it well.” I fell to my knees. “Please. My son. My fiancé. Save them.” Her expression softened. “Get up, child.” I stood, shakily. “I am Loretta Jill. I purchased you tonight because I owed you something—a chance.” I blinked. “What do you mean?” “You gave me hope once. In that prison. When I had none.” I tried to make sense of her words. “Listen to me carefully,” Loretta said. “You’re not free yet. The family that ran this auction—they don’t just release people. They test them. And test me.” “Test?” “I need to prove my loyalty. That I didn’t buy you to help you. That I bought you for power. Until they believe that, you stay in their custody.” My stomach sank. Weeks passed in captivity. I was fed, guarded, locked inside a marble cell that mocked the idea of freedom. Loretta visited often, never touching, always watched. But she spoke to me in codes, assuring me she was doing everything she could. And then, one morning, the door opened. Loretta stood there, surrounded by guards. She gave a slight nod. “Let’s go.” We boarded a helicopter on a hidden helipad. As it lifted into the skies, I stared at Loretta. She looked flawless, composed, not at all like a woman who had once been an inmate. I had to ask. “How did you escape the jail fire?” She smiled faintly. “I didn’t. I stayed behind while everyone ran. I stayed quiet. And eventually, someone came.” “Who?” “Sergio Osmeña. One of the wealthiest men in the city. He found me. I seduced him. Became his mistress. And in return, he gave me this.” She gestured out the window. Below us lay a hidden estate nestled between mountains. A palace built underground. Luxury unlike anything I’d ever seen. “All of this is mine now,” she said. “And you’re under my protection.” Tears welled in my eyes. For the first time in what felt like forever, I exhaled. But the questions lingered. As we stepped into her mansion, I turned to her. “Why?” I whispered. “Why does the Troillan family want me in an auction? Why test you with me?" Loretta paused, then turned to me slowly. “Because your ex-husband arranged it,” she said. My heart skipped. “Pierre?” She nodded. “He staged the auction to prove to the mafia that he no longer loved you. That you were just a pawn. It was a test.” My chest tightened. “But here’s what they didn’t expect,” she continued, voice grim. “Pierre’s been watching you and he doesn't want you to marry the poor Francis. It's too dangerous to marry a ruthless man. And from the moment he realized who Wayna Scott really was. He wants you back. And not for love. For power. For vengeance. He’s playing a game only he understands. Suddenly, he wants his child back from you when he found out that Sharon has HIV." She laughs. WHAT? HOW? I took a shaky breath, every bone in my body going cold. What Pierre wanted, he always got. But this time, I wouldn’t go down without a war.

The words hung in the air like a loaded gun. “He’s been watching you since the beginning,” Loretta said, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Pierre never intended to let you go.” I felt a slow burn spread through my chest—not fear, not confusion—but rage. The kind of rage that simmers in silence, feeding off betrayal and loss. My ex-husband hadn’t just broken me; he’d built an entire performance of pain, orchestrated cruelty like a symphony conductor. And now I was the crescendo he planned to control. “Then we make the first move,” I whispered, my fists curling so tightly I could feel my nails dig into flesh. “Before he does.” Loretta's sharp eyes never blinked. "That’s what I wanted to hear." We began that night. Loretta led me through an elevator behind a painting in her study—the walls slid open like the set of a spy film. Below us, a sprawling underground facility buzzed with cold blue light. Weapons lined one wall, tech gear another. In the center stood a training ring. "This is your battlefield now," she said. For days, I became a different woman. Gone was the socialite in silk dresses and soft words. I trained from dawn to midnight. Firing ranges, close-combat sparring, tactical tech skills. My body screamed with every movement, bruises blooming like purple flowers across my ribs. Loretta didn’t go easy on me. “Pain is your friend,” she told me as I winced from a knife nick on my palm. “It keeps you sharp. Alive.” Each day hardened me. I was no longer running. I was preparing for war. Five days later, we moved. Under the identities of Iris Mendez and her European business partner, we arrived at the heart of the city: a private gentleman’s club known only to those with power and blood on their hands. Beneath it was one of the Troillan family’s oldest data vaults—a steel tomb of secrets. We blended into the crowd like shadows. My black leather coat clung to me like armor. Loretta wore crimson, lips blood-red, eyes alert behind diamond-framed glasses. We moved like predators. The club's interior was velvet and vice—cigar smoke curling through the air, whispers of dirty deals lingering in the corners. Downstairs, the vault entrance was disguised as a wine cellar. A retinal scan, two voiceprints, and a six-digit code later, we were inside. The cold hit first—the kind that gnawed at bones. Fluorescent lights flickered above racks of servers, humming with encrypted sins. We slipped past two guards knocked out with a silent dart Loretta had slipped from her thigh holster. "There it is," I whispered, pointing to a drive marked in faded black ink: PROJECT ORCHID - D.CARTÉ I moved fast, hands steady, heart thundering. The decryption tool Francis once gave me glowed green as it began extracting data. Then everything went wrong. Footsteps. Rapid. Heavy. The lights flickered again—then cut completely. Red emergency lights bathed the vault in a haunting glow. Loretta drew her gun. “They know.” “How?” I asked, panic rising. “It doesn’t matter. Run!” The flash drive popped free just as masked men stormed the corridor. Shouts. Muzzle flashes. I ducked behind a server tower as bullets tore into metal. Loretta fired three shots, each one deadly accurate. "Now, Wayna!" I sprinted, adrenaline burning through my veins. I kicked open a side panel, crawled through a ventilation shaft, and found myself above an open stairwell. I didn’t hesitate. I jumped. Glass shattered around me as I crashed through a third-story window, plummeting into the icy black river below. The shock of cold water slammed into me like cement. My lungs locked. The current seized me, dragging me under. I fought upward, arms flailing, water filling my nose and mouth. Finally, I surfaced, gasping, blinking away salt and blood. I swam until my muscles gave out and dragged myself onto the muddy shore, teeth chattering. Somewhere behind me, sirens echoed. I disappeared into the shadows. The safehouse was no more than four concrete walls and a rusted bedframe, but it was quiet. I stripped off my soaked clothes, wrapped myself in a scratchy blanket, and tried not to think about how close death had come. The burner phone buzzed. I answered with trembling fingers. "W-Wayna? Wife?" I froze. That voice. "Francis?" “Yes. I’m alive. But I don’t have long. They’re moving me constantly—every few hours. I escaped once. They caught me again.” Tears blurred my vision. “I thought you were dead. I thought—” “You have to listen to me,” he said urgently. “Someone’s feeding them information. Someone close to you. Someone you trust." Static. Then the line cut. I stared at the silent phone. Someone I trust. I returned to Loretta’s estate at dawn, drenched, shivering, and silent. She was waiting with warm towels, a robe, and hot jasmine tea. No questions. No judgments. “I got the data,” I said quietly. Her lips twitched with relief. “Good.” Then she handed me a manila folder. “If you’re starting to doubt me, open this.” I did. The photo inside made my blood run cold.