A Rich Man’s Wife

Chapter 1: A Rich Man's Wedding

Poor Waitress Turned Billionaire Wife

The cameras flashed like a firing squad. The Champagne exploded like the start of a war. The story had spread like wildfire.

A tale of what resilience, luck and a little cleavage could buy you.

From serving him coffee at a five-star restaurant to bearing his last name.

Marilyn Lancaster— now Marilyn Fontaine, stood beside her new husband, Victor Fontaine. The forty-eight year old business tycoon, and flashed her signature red-lipped smile.

An overnight viral sensation and now one of the most influential women in the world at just twenty-five, was on the grand marble steps of the Fontaine Estate, in a designer gown worth more than her childhood home.

“Mr. Fontaine, how does it feel to marry someone almost less than half your age?”

“Marilyn, are you planning to join The Real Housewives of Manhattan?”

“How does it feel to go from waitress to wife?”

Marilyn knew better than anyone how much the press loved a scandal, and she gave them one wrapped in red lipstick and a strapless Vera Wang.

She laughed, breathy and dumb. “Well, diamonds do sparkle better on young hands, don’t they?”

The crowd roared. Victor smirked beside her, a hand possessively low on her back, the other clutching his dragon-head walking stick.

He thought she was his prize. His pet. His pliant little blonde bimbo.

Let him think that. Let them all think that.

Because beneath the glossy hair and surgically perfect smile lived a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

She hadn’t survived her family's disgrace and death just to end up as some billionaire’s bedroom decoration.

No, this was phase one. The wedding. The image.

Soon would come the infiltration.

And then the empire would fall.

~~~~~~

Hours after the wedding of the year was over, Marilyn strutted into Victor's private bedroom in a blood-red silk robe, her matching lace lingerie peeking through.

Her hips purposefully swayed with each step as she struck a pose at the door.

“What do you think?” She purred.

Victor looked up from the financial report he was going through, glasses perched up on his face.

His eyes slowly assessed her from head to toe.

With a satisfied nod, he said…

“You look beautiful. I've never been prouder of any possession than I am of you.”

She smiled, sweet and practiced, swallowing the sting like champagne.

“You're working.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Should you? It's our wedding night.”

He flipped the tablet face down and reached for his stick, “You're right.”

Marilyn watched him walk to the bed and settle on it. He didn’t limp. He didn’t lean. But he always carried the dragon-head cane. Almost like a warning.

Victor was strong and still very much agile.

She slowly undid the knot on the robe and let it drop, remaining in her lingerie. “Do you like it?”

He smiled. “How much did this cost?” He referred to her lingerie.

Marilyn blinked. Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her stomach curled with rage, maybe. Or just disgust disguised as irritation.

Victor was still smiling. “Can't recall?”

“Four grand.” She slowly answered.

“Perfect. Get ten more.” He announced.

“I'm glad you like it. But maybe you'll like it better on the floor.”

With her signature smile in place, Marilyn reached behind her to unclasp her bra.

Victor raised a hand, “That won't be necessary.”

Her hand stopped behind her.

“Too tired?” she asked sweetly, already crawling up the bed. “I don’t mind earning my diamonds.”

“Not tonight.”

Marilyn paused.

“Sing for me, Marilyn.”

She nearly choked on her own breath. “Like right now?”

“Right now. Please.” He requested.

Her voice filled the room. Soft. Controlled. Obedient. The way he liked it.

And when his breathing evened out, she went still.

Her smile faded.

The mask fell.

She stood above the bed and watched him, having a mental debate on whether to just drive a knife through his heart as he was asleep and wrap up the mission.

What had pressed a pause to that thought was the fact that her parents and her sister had been awake and conscious when Victor's men slaughtered them under his command and burned her childhood home to dust.

Ending him now would be mercy.

Picking her robe from the floor, Marilyn grabbed her electronic cigarette to clear her head and wandered barefoot into the echoing halls of Fontaine Estate. A disappearing trail of fake smoke behind her.

It was past two in the morning and the servants were asleep just like the mansion itself.

The only sounds she could hear was the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the living room.

Until it was overshadowed by another.

A loud moan.

A thump.

Then, a low masculine grunt.

It was coming from the foyer.

Marilyn crept toward it. Bare feet on marble and silk clinging to her skin.

She peered around the corner and her mouth dropped open.

There, under the grand archway of the foyer, beneath the glittering chandelier and gold-leaf trim was a man.

Not just any man.

He was tall. Dark-haired. Shirtless. His sculpted back flexed with every thrust as he pinned a brunette against the wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her thigh slung around his hip.

And he was fucking her.

Hard.

Fast.

Unapologetically.

Marilyn's thighs clenched involuntarily beneath the thin silk of her robe. Heat pooling at her core from the erotic scene. Her pulse quickened and her hunger for intimacy was reignited for the first time in months.

The girl moaned, loud. The man groaned, feral. Then…

He looked over his shoulder.

And locked eyes with her.

Icy blue. Beautiful but deadly. The kind of eyes that didn’t flinch at chaos. But created it.

He didn’t stop.

In fact… He smirked. And began to thrust harder.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The girl moaned. He grunted. Marilyn's breath caught in her throat.

She should look away. She had to look away.

But she couldn’t.

Because for the first time since her wedding…

Her pulse wasn’t dead.

His gaze dropped deliberately to her robe, to the edge where it hung open just enough to tease the lace beneath. Where her breasts spilled from the cup that was intentionally a size smaller.

She shifted. Her thighs clenched tighter. Her face burned.

And he knew.

The girl came with a broken cry, slumping against him. He slowly pulled out, letting her slide to the floor, her body shaking.

He turned fully then, shirtless and panting, muscles sheen with sweat. Tattoos peeking along his ribcage.

He stepped over the girl’s heels and a checkered helmet beside it, casual as anything, and grabbed a bottle of water from the foyer table, cracked it open and drank.

He stepped forward, still watching her.

Then, he licked his bottom lip.

Tilted his head.

Her pulse jumped.

He looked her up and down, mouth twitching.

Then, he said with a grin so wicked it could curdle wine, he said…

“Oh, hi Mum.”