The Dying Billionaire's Secret Contract Wife

The crystal flute in Elsie Watkins' hand felt heavy, like a lead weight disguised as celebration. The bubbles in the champagne rose in a frantic, golden rush, mirroring the nausea that had been swirling in her stomach for the last ten minutes.

She stood in the center of the ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, a venue that smelled of expensive lilies and old money. It was her engagement party. It was supposed to be the happiest night of her life.

Her phone buzzed against her hip, hidden inside her beaded clutch.

It buzzed again. And again. A relentless, angry vibration that refused to be ignored.

Elsie forced a smile at a woman whose name she couldn't remember-some aunt of Jed's with too much powder on her face-and excused herself. She walked toward the ladies' room, her heels clicking a sharp, hollow rhythm on the marble floor.

Once inside the sanctuary of the restroom, the noise of the jazz band faded to a dull thrum. Elsie opened her clutch. Her screen was lit up with messages from Debbi.

DON'T OPEN IT.

ELSIE DO NOT CLICK THE LINK.

WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME.

Her thumb hovered over the most recent message. It was a link. No context, just a link sent from an unknown number that had also been copied to Debbi.

Elsie's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She knew. Somewhere in the deep, instinctual part of her brain, she already knew.

She tapped the link.

The video loaded with agonizing slowness on the hotel Wi-Fi. When it finally played, the sound was crisp. Too crisp.

It was a boat. The sun was shining. And there was Jed, her fiancé, the man who had proposed to her three months ago in Central Park. He was tangled in the limbs of a woman with chestnut hair. Elsie recognized the hair. It belonged to Sarah, her college roommate, one of the bridesmaids currently drinking open-bar mimosas in the other room.

Elsie didn't look away. She couldn't. She watched the way Jed's hand gripped the railing, the way he threw his head back. But it wasn't the sex that made the air leave her lungs. It was the conversation that followed.

The camera had been left recording, propped up on a towel. Jed was reaching for a beer.

"When are you going to dump her?" Sarah's voice was tinny, breathless.

"I can't yet," Jed said, cracking the can open. He sounded bored. "The Watkins stock transfer happens next quarter. I need that portfolio. Elsie is... she's fine. She's a boring, safe little girl. I just have to tolerate the missionary position for a few more months until the merger is solid."

Elsie stared at her reflection in the oversized mirror.

She looked perfect. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon. Her dress, a silk ivory slip that cost more than her first car, draped flawlessly over her frame.

But her eyes looked like broken glass.

"Boring,"