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The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

Chapter 2 No.2

Word Count: 749    |    Released on: 30/01/2026

One hundred and forty-four. Each one a marker of time, a

ght and a man in a suit who looked lik

d an air of absolute authority. Behind him trailed a young woman with red-rimmed eyes, cl

sit. He stood at the foot of the bed.

ied to step forward. "

at her. He just silenced her with the g

ck stack of documents onto the bedside ta

ION AGR

nd devoid of empathy, "Carson is invoking the morality clause in your pr

obbing. She let her voice sound weak, confused. "I don't

ent. But the ink is dry. Infidelity. Public into

es. A woman who looked like Ainsley, leaning close

he photo. It felt d

d. "Don't pretend you

the family agrees not to pursue criminal charges for the DUI. We'll

he pen. It was heav

" the girl in th

"One more word, Annie, and you'

ooked terrified. Not

anger amidst the cold calculation. She looked at Annie'

her. He was bu

hated

on's shoulders relaxed.

he document. Legale

y whispered, pressing h

A headache won't g

y said, pushing the papers away

Ainsley. You have no mo

Everything is blurry. I don't know what this is. I don't know who you are." S

looked at her, for the first time. He was searchi

aning back against the pillows, her voice

sn't want t

se. Please... just get out of m

His face was red. "You're making

ey repeated, thi

idn't slam, but the air pr

bed Ainsley's hand. "Oh my god. I

her, her voice instantly clea

ked at the door. "He's...

rst

. Or... she

me away. Kirstie. Th

e, Annie," Ainsley said.

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The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife
The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife
“I woke up in a sterile hospital room with a throat like sandpaper and eyelids that felt sewn shut. I expected to see the water-stained ceiling of my tiny Queens apartment, but instead, I found myself tethered to expensive machines in a room smelling of funeral lilies. The nurse didn't call me Ainsley Bentley; she called me Mrs. Eaton, and she told me the year was 2024. Before I could process the four-year gap in my memory, the Eaton matriarch stormed in, calling me a "little actress" and throwing a newspaper at my legs. The headline screamed that I was a scandalous commoner wife who had just caused a DUI crash. Within hours, a ruthless lawyer named Preston was at my bedside, demanding I sign a separation agreement that stripped me of everything. He showed me grainy photos of me with another man, accusing me of infidelity and "endangering the family reputation." My so-called best friend, Kirstie, even tried to bribe me with fifty thousand dollars to flee to Paris, whispering that my husband was an unstable monster who would destroy me. When I finally confronted my husband Carson, the billionaire "Blind Prophet of Wall Street," he looked at me with chilling indifference through his dark glasses. He was convinced I had sold his location to the paparazzi for a tabloid payout, betraying him at his most vulnerable moment. I didn't understand any of it. I didn't remember the marriage, the scandals, or the luxury. But when I looked in the mirror, I found a jagged, violent scar running down my back-a "war wound" that didn't belong to a yoga instructor. I realized I knew how to cite matrimonial law by heart and how to neutralize a physical threat with a single move. "I'm staying," I told the family of sharks as I stood my ground in their massive estate. I refused to sign the papers. Instead, I found a micro SD card hidden in a hollowed-out lipstick and realized I wasn't just a victim of a crash. I was a variable they hadn't accounted for, and I was going to find out exactly who I was before they could finish what they started.”