SECRETS OF A BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND

For seven hundred and thirty days, Rivera Royce lived in a sun-drenched villa in Tuscany with a man she believed was her husband.

She knew his coffee order, black, two sugars. She knew the rhythm of his footsteps in the hallway. She knew the scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and sea salt that clung to the sheets.

But she didn't know his name.

Her real husband, the real Reagan Royce was in prison. The handsome man she shared a home with was none other than Reagan's best friend, Luke Ivan.

The Tuscan sun that morning when Luke told her the truth was a cruel witness to the shattering of Rivera's life.

It was a Tuesday morning at the Villa d'Oro, the kind of morning that usually felt like a shimmering dream.

The scent of blooming lemon trees wafted through the open windows, and the distant, sapphire shimmer of the Mediterranean promised a day of quiet luxury.

She looked like a woman who had everything. In reality, she felt like a woman waiting for her life to finally begin.

Behind her, the man she had called her husband for seven hundred and thirty days stood by the balcony. He was a statue of a man; beautiful, cold, and meticulously distant.

"The two years are up," he repeated calmly, far too calmly. "The real Reagan Royce was released from prison three hours ago."

The world didn't stop, but Rivera's heart seemed to.

"What... what kind of joke is this?" she whispered, her laughter sounded like breaking glass. It was a laughter of disbelief. "You're Reagan. We've been married for two years. We moved here together after the wedding."

"You exchanged vows over a phone line, Rivera. You signed a marriage certificate that he already signed, and the groom was absent at the ceremony. You're married indeed, but not to me." He stepped toward her, but he didn't reach out. "I am your husband's lawyer and his best friend."

Rivera sank to the edge of the bed. Every memory of her "marriage" flashed before her eyes like a sickening montage. The way he always slept in the guest wing, claiming "late-night calls with the States." The way he never kissed her, only offering a respectful nod or a brief touch on the shoulder.

She had spent two years blaming herself, thinking she wasn't sophisticated enough, pretty enough, desirable enough for him. She had been trying to win the heart of a man who had been pretending to be her husband.

"Is it really all fake?" She looked up at him, her vision blurring with hot, stinging tears. "I've been living with my husband's best friend?" She repeated his words to affirm the reality of her situation. He nodded.

"He was released today. He'll leave first. We'll return to New York tomorrow morning. He has instructed that I bring you to him. I have already bought the tickets. I'll pick you up at six."

"I'm not going anywhere," she snapped, the