From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress

She wasn't Celena Roberts anymore. And she certainly wasn't Mrs. Baird. She wiped a smudge of dust from her skirt. It was time to meet Mr. Sterling.

Just hours earlier, it had all started with the feather duster.

The duster caught the edge of the silver frame on the high shelf. It wasn't a hard knock, just a clumsy brush of movement, but it was enough.

Gravity took over. The frame tipped forward, tumbling through the air in what felt like slow motion before it smashed against the marble floor of the master bedroom.

The sound was a gunshot in the silent penthouse.

Celena Roberts flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped the duster and fell to her knees, her hands hovering over the jagged shards of glass. It was their wedding photo. Foster looked dashing in his tuxedo, his smile confident and possessive. She looked young, grateful, and naive.

"Stupid," she whispered to herself, her fingers trembling. "So stupid."

A vase of white hydrangeas had been knocked over in the chaos. Water pooled rapidly across the marble, soaking into the backing of the broken frame.

Panic flared in her chest. Foster hated mess. He hated incompetence even more.

She carefully peeled the wet cardboard backing away to save the photo. Behind the picture, folded into a tight square, was their marriage license. They had never framed it properly, just tucked it there for safekeeping two years ago.

Now, it was soaking wet.

Celena pulled the document out. The water had done its work instantly. The cheap ink of the date and the official seal was bleeding into an illegible blue smear.

Her stomach dropped. Tax season was coming up. Foster's accountant had asked for a certified copy just yesterday. If she couldn't produce this, Foster would look at her with that disappointed sigh that made her feel small enough to fit in a matchbox.

She checked her watch. 2:00 PM. Foster wouldn't be back from the office until six.

She grabbed her purse, ignoring the glass on the floor for a moment. She could fix the mess later. Right now, she needed a replacement document.

The cab ride to the City Clerk's office in lower Manhattan took forty minutes of agonizing stop-and-go traffic. Celena picked at her cuticles until they bled. She rehearsed her apology to Foster in her head, over and over.

I'm sorry, I was cleaning. I'm sorry, I'm clumsy. I'll fix it.

The office was sterile, smelling of floor wax and stale coffee. She waited in line, shifting her weight from foot to foot. When her number was called, she rushed to the window.

"I need a certified copy of a marriage license," Celena said, sliding her ID across the counter. "Foster Baird and Celena Roberts."

The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and chipping nail polish, took the ID without looking up. She began typing.

Celena drummed her fingers on the countertop. Her phone buzzed in her purse-a reminder to pick up Foster's