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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

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A message lit up Stella Russell's phone, and along with it came a bunch of photos. Clothes scattered carelessly, two people holding each other tightly, messy bedsheets, and a hazy reflection in a fogged-up mirror...

Stella had seen this kind of thing before. This wasn't new to her.

One look at the big hand holding that woman's wrist, and Stella knew it was Marc's. Her husband. The same man she'd been married to for four years.

Then her eyes caught the date on the pictures, and her stomach sank. It was the same day as their wedding anniversary.

Marc had promised they'd spend the evening together, but he'd vanished for three days. All she got was a message from his assistant, saying he had some urgent business to handle.

"Urgent, huh?" Stella let out a cold chuckle. Clearly urgent—in someone else's bed. She then closed the message and called someone from her contact list.

The person picked up almost immediately.

"Stella," came the voice on the other end.

"I've made my decision about the classified research project," she said calmly.

"Who's the candidate?" they asked.

"Me."

A heavy silence stretched on the other end of the line, and then came a sharp, unwavering voice. "Don't joke around, Stella. You know what this means! Once you're in the classified research project, there's no turning back. No outside contact, no personal ties. You'll be officially listed as missing, and everything about your past will be wiped clean. A new identity will be created for you. So ask yourself—are you really ready to walk away from your family? From Marc?"

Stella's eyes fell on the framed wedding photo hanging nearby.

The smiles in it once made her feel warm, but now they just made her heart ache.

Marc's promises, which used to sound sweet, now felt cold and empty.

"I've made my decision," she said quietly. "I'll come by tomorrow to fill out the forms."

She ended the call before the person on the other end could say anything else. She didn't want to hear more. Her mind was already made up.

At that moment, a car pulled up outside. Moments later, Marc Walsh walked in, tall as ever, loosening his black tie while heading straight for the bathroom.

His jacket, tossed lazily on the hook, still carried the suggestive scent of FIRE2, the latest women's perfume of brand Vlexoot. Bold, heated—everything she apparently wasn't anymore.

Marc came out minutes later, dripping from a fast shower, wearing a gray bathrobe.

The robe hung loosely, showing off his chest and abs. Damp hair fell around his face, and the steam only made him look colder. Sharper.

Being the heir to the powerful Walsh family, Marc had everything—looks, status, and money.

Once, she'd been drawn to all of that. Now, it only made her sick.

"What's with that look?" Marc chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist, his voice low and teasing. "Miss me, babe?"

His hand slid down her side, but his touch made her skin crawl. She quickly pulled away.

Marc's hand stopped mid-move, his eyebrows knitting together. "What's going on? Are you mad at me?"

Stella took a breath, steadying herself. She wasn't going to waste energy on another fight.

Pushing down the ache in her heart, she leaned over and picked up a locked box from the drawer, handing it to him. "Here. A gift."

Inside? The divorce papers she'd already signed. Her final present. "You'll have to guess the password to open it," she said flatly.

Marc gave it a lazy look, thinking it was just another one of her odd little games, and tossed it onto the table. Then he pulled her close again, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You're the only gift I want."

Stella stiffened without meaning to. Marc noticed and gave a low chuckle.

"Still pouting because I missed our anniversary? Work's been nuts," he said while brushing a kiss on her cheek.

Then he let go, pulled a small box from his coat, and handed it to her.

"Do you like it?"

Inside was a hairpin—delicate and gold-plated, clearly custom-made with careful detail.

"I got this made just for you. You've always liked things like this, haven't you? Try it on."

His voice held that familiar mix of control and affection.

That tone had once been enough to melt her resolve.

People in Choria all believed Marc doted on his wife.

Stella had believed it as well.

If it weren't for the photos saved in her phone, she might've really been touched by the gift.

The girl in the pictures was in her twenties, pretty and confident, with flirtatious eyes and long, wavy hair pinned up using the same hairpin that now lay in front of Stella. The loose style revealed her smooth neck—marked with hickeys.

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