Married To The Devilish Billionaire

I never meant to find it. A small, unassuming notebook, buried deep inside a drawer I had no reason to open. But now, with its weight in my hands, I hesitated.

“This wasn’t mine to read.” the thoughts rushed into my head, yet, something told me… I had to.

Five years had come and gone, yet I remained stuck in place, watching life move forward without me. Seasons changed, people grew, but I stayed behind—held captive by a memory that refused to fade. You were always there, lingering in the quiet moments, in the spaces between my thoughts. I still felt you, like a whisper against my skin, like a ghost I couldn’t let go of.

Standing by your grave, the truth pressed down on me like an unbearable weight. You were gone. Not missing, not away—just… gone. My fingers traced over the cold letters of your name, the only part of you left in this world. I set down a handful of blue tulips, my silent way of saying what my heart screamed every day. I still love you. I always will.

David had never spoken about her. But here, in these pages, he had poured out the grief he never showed the media.

The handwriting was rushed, in fact, uneven, like he had been trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. My breath caught as I turned more pages, my fingers tracing the ink.

“So, David had been writing to a dead ex-girlfriend? Who was she?” The question slammed into my mind, desperate for an answer that didn’t exist. I had nothing to hold on to—no clarity, no explanation. And suddenly, the weight of my wedding dress became unbearable. The lace clung to my skin like a net, trapping me in a life I wasn’t even sure I had chosen. I tried to steady my breathing, but my chest tightened with every breath. A voice in my head whispered cruelly, mocking me.

“You married the most powerful man in Seattle. This is what you wanted.”

Was it?

Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life—my wedding night—the day I had dreamed of. But instead, I was alone in a room that felt more like a cage wrapped in silk and gold.

“Don’t complain,” the voice taunted again. “It’s still better than where you came from. Your own family didn't care about you, they forgot and trashed you like you were nothing.”

And I didn’t argue. What was the point? I had spent months teaching myself how to survive on my own before I met David.

I changed into something simpler—just a top and shorts—before wandering through the house that was now my home. The scent of freshly cooked food led me to the dining room, where the table had already been set. My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since last night, but the unfamiliar dishes made me hesitate. I settled on pancakes, the only thing I recognized, and took slow bites, my thoughts too heavy to focus on the taste.

Then, I heard footsteps.

I looked up just as he entered.

David Smith. My husband.

Even in casual clothes, he carried an effortless kind of authority. His dark hair was neatly styled, his tanned skin glowing under the soft evening light. I studied his face for a moment, but the second his gaze met mine, I looked away.

He didn’t say a word. Not a greeting, not a glance in my direction. He just walked to his seat as one of the staff stepped forward to serve him.

But then, his attention suddenly flickered back to me. His stare was cold. In fact, Unreadable.

A strange, uneasy feeling curled in my stomach, but I kept my eyes on my plate, focusing on my food.

It wasn’t long before one of his men approached him. “Sir, the media’s already spreading it,” he said.

I frowned, not understanding. But his next words made it clear.

“The most recent headline reads: ‘Mr. & Mrs. Smith—A Love Story Sealed in Marriage.’”

I nearly choked on my food. “Love story?” The absurdity of it made me laugh under my breath. “If only they knew.” I thought.

I was still caught in my thoughts when I heard his voice—this time, directed at me.

“You don’t have to act like a prisoner here,” he said, his tone indifferent. “If you want to bring family or friends over, do it. And if you need anything, just ask.”

He said it like it was a business transaction. A statement, not an invitation. Before I could even react, he dismissed his man and turned back to the tablet in his hands, eating and pressing the tablet without another word.

I clenched my fork.

"Shouldn’t a husband at least acknowledge his wife’s response?" I blurted before I could stop myself. The frustration had built too much to keep in.

He looked at me then, and for the first time, there was something behind his eyes. Amusement? Interest?

“What did you just call yourself?” His voice was deceptively calm. “My wife?”

I swallowed. “That’s what I am, isn’t it?”

David leaned back slightly, watching me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to figure out. Then, with a tone as sharp as a blade, he said, “No, Samantha Cander. You’re not my wife. You’re just the woman the world thinks I married.”

The words sliced through me.

And then he said it again—just in case I hadn’t understood.

“This marriage is for the public. Nothing more.”

But it wasn’t his words that made my breath hitch. It was the way he said my maiden name instead of his last name.

As if he wanted to make one thing very clear.

I wasn’t his. I never would be.

The room felt colder than before. My lips parted, but no sound came out. A response sat heavy on my tongue, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. And just like that, he turned back to his food, dismissing me without a second glance.

As if I had never spoken. As if I wasn’t even there.

I clenched my hands beneath the table, my nails digging into my palms. The fragile strength I had tried to hold onto slipped through my fingers like sand. A quiet war raged inside me—one I had fought for months.

This wasn’t the first time a man had made me feel disposable.

The first time had destroyed me.

That memory—one I had spent months trying to bury, rushed back into my head before I could stop it.

I had given my ex-fiance my heart, my trust, handed him the most fragile pieces of myself, believing he would protect them. He told me I was his world. That he would marry me. Stand by my side, no matter what.

And then, he ruined me.

The memory crashed over me, sharp and unforgiving.

The bitter taste of the drug in my drink, the dizziness, the way my body refused to move the way I wanted it to. His voice—so soft, so reassuring—telling me everything was fine. That I just needed to rest.

But it was all a lie.

I wasn’t resting. I was being destroyed.

He had set me up. Hired someone. A stranger. A monster.

And then the video.

The moment my world shattered beyond repair. The moment my face, my body, my shame became a spectacle for the world to see. I could still hear the whispers, the disgust in people's eyes when my nude video was everywhere. My own parents had looked at me with disgust.

"You are no longer our daughter." They had said, before chasing me out into the street. 

The world had taken everything from me once. And now, I sat across from another man, this time my husband, who wouldn’t even acknowledge me, trapped in a silence heavier than any words ever could.

It wasn’t my fault that I was his wife.

I never asked for this life.

I never asked to be here.

And yet, here I was—Samantha Cander, pretending to be Mrs. David Smith. Trapped in a marriage that wasn’t real, in a house that wasn’t mine, living a life I never chose, because I had no choice but to survive.