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Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

Ming Yue

Twenty minutes before the "Wedding of the Century" at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire. I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I didn't scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he'd dump "that hillbilly trash" on a bus back to the mountains. They weren't just cheating; they were planning to steal my family's land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn't apologize. They called me a "greedy peasant" and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock. I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim. "If we don't have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity," their lawyer warned. So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn't marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months. Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I've suspended Hugh's executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I'm just a gold-digger waiting for a "corpse" to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow's payout. But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back.

Modern Scheming Contract marriage Billionaires CEO Flash Marriage Revenge Age Gap

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The bedroom was dimly lit, emanating a depressing aura. Melissa Sherman fell on the floor, clutching her stomach.

The pregnancy caused her discomfort. The stomach cramps were unbearable. Her face was pale as paper. She was drenched in a cold sweat.

Just then, the bedroom door flew open, and a man came into her sight.

Melissa reached out her hand, asking for help. "Honey, help me..."

However, a shiver ran down her spine when she met the man's cold, distant gaze.

"Melissa, is this what you want?" The man's voice dripped with disgust. "You played tricks and made me sleep with you. Do you think that will make me fall in love with you?"

Melissa and Everett Mayfield were engaged since childhood. Eventually, the two got married under their parents' arrangement. However, Everett didn't like her.

They were married for three years, but everyone knew her husband had no feelings for her, and she was just the nominal Mrs. Mayfield—nothing more than that. Therefore, everyone ridiculed her for three years.

Two months ago, the Mayfield Group held a banquet, and Melissa attended it as Everett's wife. Unexpectedly, she and Everett had sex that night.

Regardless of how much she explained, Everett thought it was her plot.

Melissa frantically shook her head. "No, it wasn't me. I was drunk that day. I don't know what happened... Please trust me..."

Melissa felt a piercing pain in her stomach. She stretched out her hand and held Everett's trousers in desperation. "My stomach hurts. Can you please take me to the hospital?"

"God, are you still acting?"

Everett's face turned grim when he heard the word "hospital". "Do you think you can get away with pushing Arielle downstairs and causing her miscarriage by pretending this way?"

His words were like a bolt from the blue. Melissa's eyes widened in horror.

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