My Fake Husband Is A Secret Billionaire

Clara Hayes stood in the dim, familiar hallway of the Los Angeles apartment building, her fingers gripping the cardboard edges of a bakery box. Inside sat a custom red velvet cake. It had cost her a week's worth of grocery money, but it was Leo's twenty-sixth birthday.

She slid her key into the deadbolt. The lock clicked, a loud, metallic sound in the quiet hallway.

Clara pushed the door open and stepped onto the entryway rug. The apartment was dark, the blinds pulled tight against the afternoon sun. She took one step inside and froze.

A pair of unfamiliar, red-soled stiletto heels lay discarded on the rug. They were careless, kicked off in a hurry. Clara stared at them. Her stomach dropped, a sudden, heavy weight plummeting toward her knees.

Then, she heard it.

A muffled, high-pitched laugh echoed from down the short hallway. It came from the master bedroom.

Clara's breath hitched. The air in the apartment suddenly felt too thick to inhale. She slowly placed the cake box on the edge of the kitchen counter. Her hands were trembling so badly the cardboard scraped against the granite.

She forced her legs to move. She tiptoed down the hallway, her sneakers making no sound on the hardwood floor. The bedroom door was left slightly ajar, a crack of light spilling out onto the floorboards.

Clara stopped outside the door. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin threatened to break. She peered through the narrow crack, her eyes adjusting to the light filtering through the bedroom window.

Leo Foster, her boyfriend of four years, had a blonde woman pinned against the headboard of the bed Clara had bought for them.

The woman turned her head to laugh again. Clara recognized the sharp profile and the expensive blonde extensions immediately. It was Veronica Thorne. She was the daughter of a major Hollywood producer, a woman who frequented the same audition circles as Clara, always landing the roles Clara was told she was "too plain" for.

"You're going to get in trouble, Leo," Veronica whispered, her tone teasing. "Doesn't your little roommate come home soon?"

Leo scoffed. He kissed Veronica's neck. "Clara? She's probably at another dead-end extra gig. She's boring, Veronica. She's poor. She has no connections. She was just a stepping stone until I got my foot in the door."

Veronica laughed loudly, the sound grating and cruel. "God, she is pathetic. Did you see that cheap dress she wore to the mixer last week? It's like she enjoys looking like a peasant. Her dedication to your career is actually hilarious."

Clara stood in the hallway. A sharp, physical ache tore through her chest, right behind her sternum. It felt as if a jagged piece of glass was twisting into her lungs. She couldn't breathe. The pain was so acute it made her vision blur. Four years of paying his rent, buying his headshots, cooking his meals. A stepping stone.

The suffocating sorrow vanished in a split second, replaced by a surge of burning, white-hot anger. The heat rushed to her face.

Clara raised her hand and shoved the bedroom door.

It swung open violently, slamming against the drywall with a noise like a gunshot.

Leo and Veronica jumped apart. Veronica let out a piercing shriek, scrambling backward and pulling the white bedsheets up to her chin in sheer panic.

Leo fell off the side of the bed, his knees hitting the floor. He looked up, his face draining of all color. "Clara! Wait, Clara, it's not-"

Leo stammered frantically, his chest heaving. "Clara, wait, Veronica's father is producing my next project! She was highly emotional about a role she just lost, and I was just comforting her! It's not what it looks like, I swear!"

Clara didn't say a word. She reached into her back pocket, pulled out her smartphone, and raised it.

She tapped the screen. A bright flash illuminated the room, capturing a crystal-clear photo of Leo on his knees and Veronica clutching the sheets, both looking terrified.

Veronica screamed again, hiding her face behind her hands. "Delete that! Delete that right now, you crazy bitch! Do you know who my father is? I will ruin your acting career forever! You'll never work in this town again!"

Clara lowered the phone. She looked Leo dead in the eye. Her voice was completely steady, entirely devoid of the warmth he had relied on for four years.

"We are completely and permanently done, Leo."

She didn't wait for his response. She didn't shed a single tear. Clara turned on her heel and walked briskly out of the bedroom. She marched down the hallway, grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter, and ignored the birthday cake entirely.

She walked out the front door and let it slam shut behind her.

Clara stepped out of the apartment building and was immediately hit by a sudden, freezing Los Angeles downpour. The sky had cracked open. She pulled her thin denim jacket tight across her chest, walking numbly down the sidewalk. The cold rain washed over her face, plastering her hair to her cheeks.

She needed to get away. She needed to undo the last mistake she had made for him.

Clara hailed a passing yellow cab. She pulled the heavy door open and slid into the damp, vinyl backseat.

"City Hall, please," she instructed the driver. Her voice sounded hollow. She had made an appointment weeks ago to get a marriage license for her and Leo today. It was supposed to be a surprise. She needed to cancel it in person.

The cab navigated through the heavy, rain-slicked city traffic. Clara stared out the window, her mind a blank, buzzing void. Eventually, the cab pulled up to the grand, imposing stone steps of City Hall.

Clara paid the fare with shaking hands. She stepped out of the cab into the drizzle and began walking up the wide steps. She felt utterly hollowed out, a ghost in her own body.

Under the grand stone archway, seeking shelter from the rain, stood a man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing. He wore a tailored dark suit that looked like it cost more than Clara's entire life savings. He exuded a cold, unapproachable aura. His jaw was clenched, and his brow was furrowed in deep annoyance as he checked a heavy luxury watch on his left wrist.

Clara stopped a few feet away, wiping the rain from her eyes.

The man, Caspian Sterling, held a phone to his ear. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "I don't care what the lawyers say. I need a wife immediately. Today. The family trust requirement has a deadline, and I am not losing my inheritance because of a technicality. Find someone."

He hung up the phone, letting out a harsh breath, and turned his head.

His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Clara.

An impulsive, reckless idea sparked in Clara's mind. It was driven by the acute, burning need for revenge, the desire to do something entirely out of character, and the desperate need to sever her past completely.

Clara stepped directly into Caspian's line of sight. She lifted her chin bravely, ignoring the rain dripping from her nose.

"Do you want to marry me instead?"