THE BILLIONAIRE'S HOUSEWIFE

ELIZA WHITMORE'S POV

"Your husband has a second bank account." I froze, my hand still holding tightly to the glass dish of funeral potatoes. Sister Jensen's voice was steady, almost too steady, like she had rehearsed the line on her drive over.

I didn't look at her right away. Instead I diverted my focus on the crusted layer of cheddar on the casserole, the way it bubbled and curled at the corners. Maybe if I stared long enough, she'd take it back. And say it was a slip if her tongue. That she meant to say something else, something entirely different from what she said earlier.

"He what?" My voice came out thinner than I meant it to.

She reached across the counter and touched my wrist. "Eliza, I'm sorry. I didn't want to be the one to say anything but I happened to see the statements. My son, the one who works in the bank, he recognized Mark's name. He wasn't supposed to say anything, but he thought you deserved to know."

I blinked. "A second account?" Still in shock. I and mark had a joint account. After marriage he forbade us having separate accounts. It's always been a joint account. So this sounds so ridiculous.

"It's in his name. Not joint. And it's not just one or two deposits. It's already reading in millions due to the fact he deposits Regularly."

I pulled my hand away and turned to the sink. My hands found the faucet and turned on the water out of instinct. I've really been a fool for the past five years. How did I not suspect? "You're sure it's him?" I find myself asking this question. Yes, I still find it hard to comprehend as to why he would open an account without informing me.

Her reflection hovered behind mine in the window above the sink. "Yes, Eliza. I'm sure."

I let the silence thicken between us. Outside, the trees were bare and rattling in the wind. Inside, my kitchen smelled of butter and cloves and the pine-scented cleaner I always used before Sunday dinners. Everything looked exactly the way it should. But my lungs wouldn't fill all the way.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Now sounding apologetic. "I can stay if you want."

I shook my head. "No. Thank you. I just need a minute."

She hesitated, like she didn't trust me to be alone, but eventually she left. The door closed with a quiet click, and then the house was mine again.

Except it wasn't mine. Not really. Not when everything inside it had been picked and placed by someone who might have been living two lives.

I didn't cry. I should have. That's what normal wives did when their entire foundation cracked wide open. But all I felt was this low, nauseating hum that started in my chest and crawled up into my ears.

Mark came home late, which is unusual. He said he'll he back early.

"It's past ten p.m." I blurted out as he stepped into the living room.

"Do you now time my movements? My car broke down."

"You should have told me. Maybe, I'll pick you up." I said, then he laughed.

"You realize the highway had been unsafe recently. Besides, I don't want to stress you." I didn't ask further. I just let him go inside and shower. Maybe sister Jensen wasn't sure of what she said earlier.

"No kiss?" I asked before he was out of sight. He sluggishly walked up to me and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. I saw it, a lipstick stain. And a feminine perfume fragrance mixed with his. "Since when did you start using feminine perfumes? And that isn't mine. It's vanilla and I love coconut." I interrogated as he smiled.

" You must be really tired Eliza. Before my car broke down I went to the supermarket and wanted to get you a new perfume. But I didn't know of you'll like it so, I sprayed a pint to be sure you like the fragrance." Seeing how bold he stood lying broke me the more. Looks like sister Jensen was right. Mark must have taken me for a fool. As he left, I checked my messages for a debit alert from the joint account found none. Then it dawned on me. Jensen said nothing but the truth.

The next morning, I packed a bag. And by evening, I was standing outside my sister's house, shivering in a cardigan that wasn't nearly warm enough for December.

"What do you mean you applied for a job?" Megan sat on the floor of her living room, surrounded by Lego bricks and goldfish crackers. Her toddler screamed something unintelligible and launched a sippy cup at the couch.

I adjusted the scarf around my neck and tried not to flinch when the cup landed near my feet. "It's part-time. Remote. I just need something for now. Until I figure out what's next."

"You've never had a job in your life, Eliza." She stated. Giving me a suspicious look.

"That's not true. I helped in the school library all through high school."

Megan gave me a flat look. "Fifteen years ago. Volunteering doesn't count. Do you even have a resume?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a stapled packet. "I do now."

She took it, scanned it, then raised her brows. "You listed 'Primary President' under leadership experience?" She furrowed her brows. My resume must look like a joke to her.

"I managed thirty women and ran monthly meetings. That counts."

Megan didn't laugh, which I appreciated more than she knew. She flipped to the second page. "Blackwell Enterprises?"

I nodded, my heart doing that annoying flutter thing it had started doing every time I thought about the application.

"As in Dominic Blackwell?" she asked in shock, raising her eyebrows.

I blinked. "You know him?"

"Everyone knows him. He's like the Elon Musk of Manhattan, except hotter and probably more evil. You applied to be his assistant?"

"Administrative coordinator." I corrected.

"Same thing."

I picked up a handful of Legos and began arranging them into color-coded piles. "The listing said remote. Flexible hours. High pay. I figured I'd never hear back."

Megan opened her mouth, closed it again, then looked down at the resume. "Well. I hate to break it to you, but you heard back."

I stilled. "What?"

She handed me her phone. "Check your email."

I tapped the screen, pulled up my inbox, and stared. There it was. Blackwell Enterprises. Subject line: Interview Invitation – Eliza Whitmore

By the time I made it to the airport, I had talked myself out of going at least four times.

It didn't matter that they had sent a ticket. Or that the assistant had scheduled everything down to the driver picking me up from the terminal. I was a housewife from Utah with five kids and a ruined marriage. I had no business flying to New York City to meet a billionaire.

But I went anyway. Maybe it was pride. Maybe desperation. Or maybe I just wanted to sit across from someone who had built something from nothing. Someone who didn't pretend.

The elevator doors opened into a space that didn't look like an office. It looked like an art museum. White walls. Sleek glass panels. A fireplace built directly into black stone.

And then he walked in. Dominic Blackwell. The man himself. He wore a black suit, no tie, top button undone. His jaw looked like it had been carved from anger and old money. His eyes were unreadable, like he'd learned a long time ago how to bury emotion under layers of polish and power.

"Eliza Whitmore." His voice was deep and smooth, and I hated that it sent a chill up my spine.

"That's me." I said trying my best to stand upright.

He extended a hand. "I appreciate you flying in."

I took it. His grip was firm, warm, and completely in control. I wore a smile. Maybe, this is it. This is my new door being opened.

"You've never worked in a corporate environment," he said, sitting across from me in a chair that looked far too modern to be comfortable.

"No," I replied, folding my hands in my lap. Trying best to hide the fact that I'm nervous.

"You have five children." He raised his brow. I'm struggling to keep an upright posture.

"Yes."

"You listed organizing a ward Christmas program as a logistics skill."

I smiled, just a little. "Have you ever tried coordinating seventy-five toddlers with no budget and thirty overbearing mothers?" I asked trying to put him at an edge. That was really a lot.

His mouth twitched. "Fair point."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'll be blunt, Eliza. I don't hire people like you." I flinched. I had been optimistic through out my journey here. I never expected this ending.

I nodded. "Then why did you fly me out?" I asked, trying to hide my disappointment.

"Because I was curious. And because sometimes, I make exceptions." That was a hope indeed. Maybe I'll cling unto this hope.

I met his gaze. "And are you going to make one now?" I asked clinging unto my new found hope.

He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the skyline. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "The job isn't remote. Not anymore. My last coordinator left abruptly. I need someone I can trust in-house. For now." Did he just say in-house. How would I move my kids? How would they survive without me?

My stomach twisted. "You want me to move here." I asked, my mind thinking of how I'll move my kids. They're probably with my sister.

"Temporarily. I'll cover accommodations. A suite in the building. You can bring your children later if it works out. You'll be paid well. Very well." I heaved a sigh of relief. That was really considerate. Like he read my mind.

I stood too. "And if I say no?"

"Then you get back on a plane and we part ways. No hard feelings."

"And if I say yes?" He turned to face me, his expression unreadable.

"Then your life changes."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, frowned, then held it out to me. "It's for you."

I frowned. "For me?"

He nodded.

I took the phone, confused, and pressed it to my ear.

"Eliza?" The voice on the other end was ragged and angry. "It's Mark. What the hell are you doing in New York?" he shouted over the phone. I was literally finding a better life. At least one quiet and free from a liar and cheat. One who uses me for himself. One who takes me for a fool. I wouldn't want my kids grow up in such vicinity. So best put, I'm here for a better life. One basically without you.