The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

Consciousness didn't return like a sunrise. It was a switch, flipped in the dark. One moment, nothing. The next, the cold, sharp reality of her own breathing.

Her eyelids felt like they had been sewn shut with lead thread. She fought against the weight, a panic rising in her chest that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with survival. This part of the act had to be convincing. She gasped, the air scraping against a throat so dry it felt lined with sandpaper.

The light was the first enemy. It was sterile, white, and blinding. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing tears to leak out the corners, hot against her cold skin.

She tried to sit up. She sent the command, then let her body follow with a believable tremor. Her muscles screamed, a deep, aching throb that lived in the marrow of her bones. The pain, at least, was real. She looked down. Her hand, pale and unfamiliar, was tethered to a machine by a clear plastic tube.

This wasn't her apartment in Queens. Her ceiling had a water stain shaped like a rabbit. This ceiling was pristine, acoustic tile. The room smelled of antiseptic and expensive flowers. Lilies. The flower of funerals. A message.

The door pushed open. A nurse in blue scrubs walked in. She didn't look at Ainsley's face. She looked at the monitor beeping rhythmically beside her head. She adjusted a dial on the IV drip with practiced indifference. Ainsley cataloged her: overworked, underpaid, unimpressed. Not a threat.

"Water," Ainsley croaked. The sound was like grinding stones.

The nurse paused, finally glancing at Ainsley. There was no warmth in her eyes. Just a clinical assessment. She poured a small cup from a pitcher and held the straw to Ainsley's lips. Ainsley drank greedily, choking slightly for effect.

"What time is it?" Ainsley asked, her voice gaining a fraction of strength. "I have a shift at the studio at four."

The nurse checked the silver watch on her wrist. "It is four-fifteen, Mrs. Eaton."

Mrs. Eaton? Ainsley opened her mouth to correct her, to tell her her name was Bentley, but the nurse continued.

"And the year is 2024."

The air left the room. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She let her eyes go wide, projecting the perfect mask of shattered confusion. It was 2024, just as she'd planned. But the nurse didn't need to know that.

"You're joking," Ainsley whispered.

The nurse didn't answer. She just made a note on her clipboard.

Before Ainsley could spiral further into the feigned black hole opening up in her mind, the door banged open again.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was older, dressed in a Chanel suit that probably cost more than Ainsley's entire college tuition. Her hair was a helmet of silver perfection. Her face was twisted in a sneer that made Ainsley's stomach turn. Victoria Eaton. The matriarch. Right on cue.

"So,