My Fake Husband Is A Secret Billionaire

ding. Her clothes were still damp, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. S

Honda Civic pulled out of the

ng her spare key to unlock the heavy glass front door of the lobb

e, the space instantly felt alien. The smell of Leo's

he living room, crouching down next to a fluffy cat bed. Pumpki

g," Clara whispered, scoopin

chanically, throwing her essential clothes, underwear, and a small bag o

desk in the living room, her eyes lan

was the discrete pet camera she had installed a m

Clara's mind. Her heart beg

a from the wall, and dropped it int

carrier, and walked to the kitchen counter. She dropped her apartment ke

d a cheap, run-down motel with a flickering neon sign. She

e and industrial bleach. She set the carrier down, letting Pumpkin out to

eath her. She pulled her old laptop from her duffel bag,

over the trackpad, trembling slightly. She navigated t

licke

g room and the clear, unobstructed view

r open. She saw Leo and Veronica enter the frame, their hands all over

ame th

ing stone until I got

he is p

d indentations. Her jaw ached from how hard she was grinding her teeth. She forced herself

footage to highlight the clearest shots of Leo and Veronica's faces. She isolated the audio clip of Leo insulting h

his carefully crafted public image

ne's cellular hotspot to ensure a stable, secure connection. She nav

t notorious, ruthless Hollywood gossip blog in

finger hovered over the trackpad. A pang of re

s screeching threat. I will ru

e. She clicked send. She watched the

let out a long, shaky breath. A dark, heavy

uzzed on th

a text from the unknown n

king routing

back against the flat pillows, staring at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the surreal rea

otification chime popped

ed the app. She stared at the scre

eceived:

usand dollars. For a monthly allowance. It was more than she made in three months of exhausti