The Billionaire's Secret Paper Wife

The final notice from the bank feels like a physical weight in Chantal Lewis's hand.

She sits in the driver's seat of her rusted Honda Civic, staring at the bold red letters printed across the top of the page. Notice of Intent to Foreclose. Fifty million dollars. That is what Lumina Jewelry, her family's legacy, owes.

Her chest tightens. The air in the car suddenly feels too thin to breathe.

Chantal takes a sharp breath, her lungs burning, and crushes the thick paper into a tight ball. She shoves it into the glove compartment and slams it shut.

She forces her hand to the ignition. She turns the key. The engine sputters, coughing violently before settling into a loud, uneven hum. She pulls out into the aggressive flow of Manhattan traffic, her knuckles stark white against the worn steering wheel.

She parks the car near a corner café in SoHo. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and checks the location sharing app. Her best friend, Niamh Connolly, is supposed to be right here.

Chantal pushes the car door open. A blast of freezing November wind hits her, whipping the hem of her cheap beige trench coat against her legs.

She walks toward the glass doors of the café, but a movement in the narrow, shadowed alleyway to her left catches her eye.

She hears a laugh. It is a deep, familiar, flirting sound.

Chantal stops walking. Her stomach drops.

She turns her head, squinting into the gloom. She steps closer to the red brick wall, her cheap heels making no sound on the damp pavement.

Through the shadows, the shapes become clear. Chet Jankowski, Niamh's boyfriend of three years, has a blonde woman pinned against the brick wall. His hands are tangled in her hair, his mouth aggressively attached to hers.

Chantal recognizes the blonde instantly. It is Brandi, a girl from their college alumni group.

Bile rises in the back of Chantal's throat. The sheer disgust temporarily overrides the crushing anxiety of her fifty-million-dollar debt.

She does not hesitate. She pulls her phone from her pocket, raises it, and points the camera directly at them.

She taps the screen to focus. She presses the capture button three times in rapid succession.

Because the alley is so dark, the automatic flash triggers. Three blinding bursts of white light explode in the narrow space, illuminating the dirty bricks and the two tangled bodies.

Chet and Brandi jump apart as if struck by lightning.

Brandi gasps, her hands flying up to cover her face. She scrambles to pull her blouse up over her shoulder.

Chet whips his head around. His eyes are wide with panic, but the moment he registers that it is Chantal standing there, the fear vanishes. It is immediately replaced by a dark, ugly sneer.

Brandi does not say a word. She keeps her face covered and squeezes past Chantal, running out of the alley as fast as her heels will allow.

Chet straightens his