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The Blind Billionaire's Scandalous Fake Wife

Chapter 9 No.9

Word Count: 538    |    Released on: 30/01/2026

en with a bobby pin, but it was

eeded

m a maid who looked symp

nd a diary.

ame three m

he Chanel Rouge. You used to tell me it was you

of lipsticks. But only one Chanel Rouge Noir.

. It felt heavie

. It didn't push the l

ottom pop

s a micro

r ribs. The key. This was the

r bange

ck into her palm and hid

ed in, flanke

room," she

ley asked, backing u

Kirstie said. Her eyes were brigh

t take a

ered the maids. They began dumpin

. "Give me the diary, Ainsley

kn

e a diary,"

ey. She grabbed Ainsley's right

t g

ls into Ainsley's s

reacted befor

s own momentum to spin them around. As Kirstie stumbled forward, off-balanc

shed to the floor, landing

r, her expression one of

eked from the ground, clutching a

I pulled away!" Ainsley said, her voice

e stumbled, clutching her wrist

ou?" Kirsti

Tap

ood in th

to the floor. "Carson! Help!

ll. His nostrils

smelled the adrenaline

the fear. And the fear

t," Car

n, she

out!" His vo

Ainsley a look of pure hatred,

e turned his hea

gle," he said. It

said, her hand still c

slowly. Then he

the lipstick in he

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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.”