Married To Mr Winters : A Billionaire Love Story

Natalie’s POV

Brandon York was my husband for three years.

We’ve never met.

Not even once.

Not at the wedding. Not through a screen. Not even by accident at a parking lot. I wouldn’t recognize him if he passed by holding a sign that said, ‘Hi Natalie, I’m your absentee husband.’

We got married because his grandfather said it was a good idea. Brandon needed to look stable for a few years. I needed law school paid for.

He sent a lawyer. I signed the papers. That was it.

No ceremony. No pictures. No vows. No kiss.

Just a ghost marriage to a man who never showed up.

For the last three years, I lived in the family estate and took care of his grandfather. That was part of the deal. I studied, graduated, passed the bar, and watched the old man die. 

Brandon never visited. Not once. Not even after the funeral.

So when I came back to work today, I thought the worst thing waiting for me would be an overflowing inbox.

Nope.

A fat cream envelope was sitting on my desk, waiting like it had been plotting all morning.

Sender: Brandon York.

Of course, I opened it.

Divorce papers. Clean. Straightforward. Zero personality, no note, no explanation. Just… divorce.

After three years of total silence, he ended things the same way he started them... by not showing up??

There was nothing generous in the terms. No alimony. No asset breakdown. Not even a polite “thank you for wiping my grandfather’s ass for two years.”

I guess he thought I’d just sign and vanish.

I stared at the papers and muttered, “Seriously?”

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even shocked. I was mostly impressed by the audacity, like, what the fuck? 

After all my sacrifices?! Nah-ah! 

I grabbed a pen and started adjusting the asset division. I wasn’t going to throw a tantrum, but I wasn’t going to let him erase me like a typo, either.

Well, if you’re thinking I was about to rip the divorce papers in half, run to his office, and cry, “No, you can’t leave me! I’m your wife! I can’t live without you!”

Yeah… no.

That’s not me. That’s not gonna happen, ever.

The hell do I care about Brandon York?

He got what he wanted. The company. The name. The image, name it!

And I got what I wanted. My law degree. My license. A life!

So we’re even.

Or… we were.

Just as I hit print, someone knocked on my office door.

“Come in,” I said, eyes still on the monitor.

Dylan walked in like he was about to deliver good gossip. He dropped a red folder on my desk and raised his eyebrows.

“Mrs. N, you’re gonna love this,” he said.

“Correction. Ms. N,” I said, sharpening my voice on the word.

“Wait, what happened?” he asked.

“Long story. So, what is it?”

“Oh yeah. Got a new one for you,” he said excitedly. “The client asked for you specifically.”

“If this is another influencer suing over a hair serum deal gone wrong, I’m walking.”

“Nope. Property reassignment case,” he said, handing it over.

I raised an eyebrow and opened the folder. It wasn’t what I expected.

The first thing I saw was a photo of a mansion.

My mansion.

Woodridge Hills. The property Brandon’s grandfather left to me. The one he said was mine “as thanks” for not letting him die alone.

I flipped to the next page.

The file was labeled:

“Asset Reallocation Request”

Beneath it: Brandon York.

I blinked.

Wait. What?

“This is Brandon’s file?” I asked slowly.

Dylan nodded, like it was nothing. “He’s finalizing some estate stuff with his fiancée. Carmella something. Wanted the house moved to her name.”

I stared at the line again.

Transfer of inherited estate from former marital property to Ms. Kingston, as agreed by the former spouse.

Former spouse?

I turned another page. Read. Re-read.

He didn’t even use my name. Just “the wife.” Like I was a placeholder in my own paperwork!

“They said the wife had no issue with it. Already signed off emotionally or something.”

My hand froze mid-page.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“They said—wait, what’s wrong? You don’t look so well.”

I turned the page again. There it was. My name. On the legal documents. The property was still under me.

And they were trying to transfer it… to HER… Without even asking me?

WTF?!

The nerve!

The actual balls on this man!

I didn’t even realize my hands were shaking until Dylan leaned forward, his brows pulled together. 

“Something wrong?” He asked and flipped back to the declaration page, reading it slower this time.

His expression shifted.

His eyes darted from the papers… to my face… then down to the cream envelope still sitting open on my desk.

“Wait… this can’t be right. Why is your name written here?” Dylan’s voice dropped to a near whisper, like the sentence weighed too much to say out loud.

He blinked once. Then again.

I didn’t speak.

My fingers curled tightly around the edge of the desk, grounding myself.

Then Dylan suddenly stood up, rubbing his temple… it looked like he finally realized what was going on. Great!

“That CEO of York International… He’s your husband?!” His voice pitched up a level. “All this time?!”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Looks like he is.”

Dylan just stared. “Wait, what the fuck? He’s trying to give your inheritance to his girlfriend?”

“Cute, isn’t it?” I smirked.

Dylan looked down at the file again, then back up at me.

His brow furrowed.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

I didn’t answer. He stepped closer, reached for the paper, and read the first line.

And froze.

“Wait… He’s divorcing you too?!”

I leaned back slowly, keeping my voice calm.

“I told you. I’m no longer Mrs.”

“Wait, let me breathe. This is insane!”

“Looks like he sent me the knife, then asked me to help him twist it.” I bit the pen and exhaled hard.

Dylan dragged a hand down his face and let out a deep breath.

“What are you gonna do now?”

Then I asked, quieter this time, “Did he know who I was when he sent this?”

Dylan shook his head. “No. He just said specifically for Ms. N. No full name. Just… Ms. N.”

I looked back down at the folder.

Ms. N. The ghost wife.

“Let’s make sure he regrets that.”