The Mad Billionaire's Genius Undercover Wife

The paper ticket in my hand was damp. It had absorbed the sweat from my palm and the humidity of the Greyhound bus that smelled like stale urine and despair. I ran my thumb over the frayed edge of the paper. One way. No return. Just like the life I was leaving behind, or rather, the life I had meticulously fabricated just to leave it behind.

I looked down at my chest. The grey hoodie I wore was pilling, the fabric rough against my skin. I had bought it at Walmart three days ago, along with the canvas shoes that were already pinching my toes. I looked like trash. I smelled like the inside of a smoker's lung. I was perfect.

The bus hissed as it kneeled against the curb, the hydraulic sigh sounding like a dying animal. Through the grime-streaked window, I saw it. A sleek, black Mercedes idling among the rusted sedans and pickup trucks of the station pick-up zone. It looked like a shark swimming in a pool of minnows.

Frank Vance. My uncle. Or at least, the man who signed the papers claiming he was.

I grabbed my duffel bag. It was light, mostly filled with crumpled newspaper to give it bulk, with only a few distinct items buried at the bottom. I stepped off the bus, letting my shoulders slump forward, curving my spine into the posture of someone who spent their life apologizing for existing.

Frank did not get out of the car. He did not unlock the door until I was standing right next to the passenger window, looking like a lost dog waiting for a scrap. The window rolled down two inches. Just enough for his eyes to rake over me, assessing the damage.

"Get in the back," he said. His voice was flat. "Don't touch anything with those hands until you wipe them."

I obeyed. I opened the back door and tossed my bag onto the floorboard, careful not to let the canvas scuff the beige leather. I slid into the seat, making myself small, pressing my knees together. The air conditioning in the car was set to a temperature that made the sweat on my neck turn instantly cold.

He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask about my mother, or the funeral, or the debt. He just merged into traffic, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure I wasn't stealing the change from the center console.

We drove in silence for forty minutes, leaving the cracked pavement of the city limits for the manicured, emerald-green lawns of the Hamptons. The transition was violent. One minute, billboards for bail bonds; the next, wrought-iron gates that cost more than a kidney.

When we pulled into the driveway of the Vance estate, I saw her. Brenda. My aunt. She was standing on the front porch, directing a team of movers who were hauling Louis Vuitton trunks out of the house. She looked frantic, her hands