Billionaire's Fake Wife

Lights blared in her face, forcing her eyes to flutter shut against the intense glare. Sweat beaded on her pale forehead. Her slender hand fixated on the kid by her side, who was hugging her legs tightly, clearly scared and horrified. Her throat felt dry all of a sudden, and her chest tightened. The voices of reporters grew louder, an overwhelming cacophony that made her head spin.

She took a deep breath, wondering how she had ended up in such a chaotic situation. She was just here to—

Just when she thought the reporters would skin her alive, a black jacket was thrown over her head, hiding her from the reporters. She was plunged into darkness, the jacket now shielding her from the flashing cameras. A firm hand grasped her shoulder, and a low voice whispered, "Follow me silently."

Her heart stopped for a moment. She turned her head toward the man, even though she couldn't see anything past the jacket. It felt like a sense of security had taken over her—just like a moment from a romance novel, the kind where a powerful CEO rescues the damsel in distress. But this was no fantasy. This was real. The kid was still holding onto the woman as if for his life.

The men in black escorted her through the crowd, pushing past the reporters until they led her into a spacious, dimly lit room. The child clung to her side as though afraid to let go.

"Madam, we've brought her as you requested," the man who had thrown the jacket over her head announced. He removed the coat, leaving her hair disheveled and her vision adjusting to the room's softer light.

Blinking rapidly, she tried to take in her surroundings. Beautiful suite, definitely booked by someone loaded.

"Hah! What a tacky thing she is," came a cold voice.

Twila suddenly flinched and turned toward the source of the words, seeing a woman lounging on a luxurious sofa. She appeared to be in her early forties, her black hair impeccably styled, her posture graceful in a greyish-blue designer dress that spoke of wealth and authority.

"Who—who are you? And where am I?" Twila stammered, her voice trembling out of nervousness.

The woman's lips curled in disdain. "You don't know me? How surprising." Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "I am the mother of the man you've been chasing all this time."

Twila paused, her eyes slowly widening, and her pale complexion seemed to regain some color. "You are?" she said, startled. "That’s... surprising." She took a hesitant step forward. "My name is—" she clasped her hands as she gave a weak smile, clearly a nervous and desperate one.

"You don't need to tell me anything," the woman cut her off with a wave of her hand. Twila instantly paused and gave the woman a heartbroken look as she swallowed her saliva. "My son has already told me everything about you."

"He has? But I thought—" Twila began to speak, but was yet again interrupted by the woman, who didn’t want to hear a single word coming out of her mouth.

"Don't overthink it. I've already done all the thinking for you," the woman replied sharply. Her gaze hardened. "From now on, you'll only do as I say."

Twila's lips parted in protest, but she swallowed her words and nodded weakly; she really was in no position to say anything. She freed herself from the child’s grasp and sat across from the woman, trying to compose herself.

"My son doesn't want to see you," the woman said bluntly.

Twila's face fell, but she clung to a shred of hope. "I know, but there must be some misunderstanding. I’m sure I can sort it out if I just talk to him." She pleaded, reaching her hand closer to the woman.

"Look at this shameless wench!" the woman spat, her eyes flashing with anger.

Twila jumped at the sudden outburst and shrank back but still spoke, her voice desperate. "Shameless? Isn’t it natural to—"

"No, it is not natural!" the woman interrupted, her voice rising in fury. "Look at yourself. You’re not even of age, and you think you can play this game?" the woman spoke hatefully.

"Age? Why does my age matter at all? Isn't it just a number? What matters is talent," the girl argued quietly. "Besides, I’m twenty now—I’m perfectly capable of handling this."

The woman let out a harsh laugh. "You think you can fool me with that? I know exactly what you're after. Fine. I’ll give you what you want, but in return, you'll disappear from his life forever," she stated angrily.

Twila's eyes widened once again as she asked in shock, "You’ll give me the money?" the girl asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman's eyes turned icy as she nodded. "Seith, transfer whatever amount she desires. And ensure she never sets foot in this country again."

"Yes, Madam," Seith responded, his expression neutral.

The girl glanced up nervously. "And are you going to tell your son about this? Won’t he be upset if he finds out?"

The woman's tone dropped, dangerously cold. "Are you threatening me? Do you think you can manipulate me into revealing this to him?"

"No! That’s not what I meant," the girl quickly corrected, her words tumbling over each other. "It’s just... secrets like this never stay hidden for long. What if it causes more problems later?"

"I’ll handle my son," the woman replied with a venomous edge. "Just make sure you never appear before him again, or I’ll expose you for who you truly are."

Twila's face drained of color, her lips trembling. "Please don’t. I promise I won’t ever appear before him. Even if I do, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me."

"Why would you want to look at him?" the woman asked, her brow furrowing in suspicion.

Twila's face flushed, and she glanced down at her hands. "I..."

"Spare me the details," the woman snapped. "And no, you can't even look at him from afar. Don't so much as glance in his direction."

Amara, growing impatient, waved Seith over. "Take her away."

Twila hesitated, giving the woman one last pleading look. "Can I at least ask why?"

Amara sneered. "Because you are a poor, classless girl with no standards. You will never, ever be on the same level as my son."

Twila’s eyes welled with tears, but she managed to ask, "But what if I change? What if I become someone with standards, someone worthy of him?"

"That will never happen," Amara scoffed, her tone dripping with contempt. "And don’t forget to take your child with you."

Twila blinked, startled. "He’s not my child," she said, confused.

Amara’s gaze darkened. "Oh, you’re even more cunning than I thought. You planned all of this, didn’t you? I’m relieved my son is away on business. If he had seen the web you were weaving, he would have been devastated." Her voice grew colder. "Take her away before I throw her into the ocean!"

Twila bit her lip as Amara stormed out of the room, her mind spinning with the woman’s hateful words. She had the money now, but there was no longer any reason to approach him.

With tears streaming down her face, Twila struggled to chop onions in the kitchen. "Why does this always happen to me? Did I offend the onion gods or something?" she exclaimed dramatically.

Suddenly, a harsh voice interrupted her thoughts. "Hah! Look who has the nerve to cry like a baby after sneaking off for the whole evening," the voice sneered. Twila looked up to see a muscular man with a scar on his left cheek, holding a basket full of fresh, tear-inducing onions.

"This is your punishment for sneaking away during work. Now stop crying and start cutting, or I'll make you chop onions until you turn into one," he said as he placed another basket beside her.

"No, please Chef, have mercy on me. I won't run off again. I can hardly cut these without shedding tons of tears. I'll collapse if I have to cut the second basket too," Twila pleaded, holding onto his pants and sitting on the floor in a dramatic fashion.

The man sneered and pulled his pants out of her gra