Married a billionaire to spite my ex

POV: Lilly Roswell

“Miss Roswell, there’s no record of your marriage.”

The clerk said it to his screen, not to me. One finger tapped the edge of his desk.

I laughed. It came out thin and silly. “Try again. Roswell. R-O-S-W-E-L-L. My husband is Ryan Fox.”

“I’ve tried three times.” He typed anyway. The keys clacked in the quiet room.

I slid the certificate under the glass. That morning it had been ripped in half in my kitchen drawer, and I’d taped it back together with shaking hands, sure I’d ruined the most precious paper I owned. I’d only wanted a new copy.

He held it under his lamp. His mouth went flat. He tilted the paper so I could see the gold seal in the corner. It sat crooked, like somebody had pressed it on in a hurry.

“This is a forgery,” he said. “You were never married.”

The floor tipped. I grabbed the counter and my nails went white. “Two years,” I whispered. “I wore his ring for two years.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He didn’t sound it. His eyes were already on the next person in line.

Outside, the sky was the color of dishwater. I stood on the courthouse steps with the taped paper crushed against my chest and couldn’t feel my fingers. People stepped around me like I was a lamppost.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost let it ring.

“Miss Lilly Roswell?” A man, low and careful. “My name is Harlan Pierce. I’m a lawyer. I’m calling about your father.”

“I don’t have a father.” My voice cracked in the middle. “I grew up in Harden House. The orphanage.”

“Your father was Neil Morrison.” Paper shuffled on his end. “A nurse stole you from the hospital the day you were born. Your mother died soon after. He looked for you for twenty years, Miss Roswell. Twenty. He spent millions.”

I sat down hard on the cold step.

“A month ago, he finally found you.” Pierce’s voice went rough. “He didn’t want to call first. He wanted to see your face. He got into his car with a little gold bracelet on the seat beside him, the one he bought the day you were born. He was on his way to you when his heart gave out.”

“No.” I pressed my hand over my mouth. “No, no, no.”

“He wanted to meet you more than he wanted to breathe. He left you everything.” He cleared his throat. “There’s one condition. The inheritance only unlocks for a married woman.”

I looked at the fake paper in my fist. A laugh climbed my throat and turned into something ugly. “I’ll call you back.”

I drove to Ryan’s office with the radio off. I wanted to see his face when he explained. I’d already built his excuses for him. A clerk’s mistake. A bad copy.

His door was open a crack. I lifted my hand to push it.

“Ryan, we’ve been married five years.” Ivy’s voice. Soft and warm, the voice that had talked me through every bad night since college. “Five years of being your secret wife. When do you make it public?”

My hand froze in the air.

Wife. Ivy. Five years.

“After the IPO.” Ryan sounded patient, tired, like he was talking to a child. “I still need Lilly for a few more things. And my grandmother will come for you if she finds out too soon. I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

You. Not me. Never me.

A chair creaked. Then a small wet sound I knew too well, and Ivy’s pleased little laugh.

I clamped my palm over my mouth. Ivy. The same Ivy who fixed my veil on my wedding day. Who cried in the front row with her mascara running and told me she’d never seen anyone look so loved. She’d been his wife then. She’d cried while I married her husband.

I thought of the night before that wedding. Ryan holding a medical report, telling me my body was broken, that I’d never carry a child. Even so, I’m going to marry you. In this lifetime, I choose you. I’d sobbed into his shirt, grateful.

How much of me had he made up?

I backed away on my toes. I didn’t scream. I didn’t kick the door. I sat in my car with both hands on the wheel until they stopped shaking, and that took a long time.

Then I drove home. I didn’t know where else to go.

The smell of roast chicken hit me at the front door and my stomach rolled. Ryan sat at the table, loosening his cuff. A child giggled upstairs. Then Ivy came down in a teal knit dress, her hair in soft waves, one hand sliding along the banister like she owned it. She kissed my cheek. Her perfume was warm and flowery and I wanted to scrub my face raw.

“You look pale, Lilly. Sit.”

I sat. My legs did it by themselves.

Ryan set down his fork. “I’ve been thinking. Ivy’s writing a new book and she needs somewhere quiet. With the IPO, and you so worn out, I’d like her to stay with us for a while. She could help with Jack.”

Five years of sneaking around wasn’t enough. They wanted my house too.

“Yes!” Jack slammed his small fist on the table. The boy we’d adopted to keep Ryan’s parents quiet. The boy who screamed at me every bedtime. “I want Ivy! Not her!”

He grabbed his grape juice and hurled it. It splashed cold across my chest and dripped off my chin.

Ryan and Ivy talked over each other. “Jack, honey, no.” “Lilly, he doesn’t mean it.” Soft voices, fake sorry, napkins fluttering toward me.

I stood up slowly. I wiped my chin with my thumb and stared at the purple stain.

“Oh, I’m not angry,” I said, sweet as syrup. “I’m entertained. My life just got so much more interesting.”

Ryan frowned. He’d expected tears. I watched him realize he had no plan for this.

I walked out. No suitcase. No scene. The door clicked shut and the night air bit through my wet dress.

On the sidewalk, I pressed my fist to my mouth. No husband. A father I’d never meet. Billions I couldn’t touch without a real ring. A sob climbed my throat.

"Miss Roswell, if you aren't married by law within the next thirty days, you father's entire fortune goes to charity."

I pushed the phone against my ear and stared at the bedroom floor, where I sat curled in an old posture, back stiff again, wearing yesterday's dress, the stiff, sticky ring of grape juice dried over my chest. I had sat in the dark until the cold had won, tiptoeing past the slumbering figure of Ryan on the couch, where he lay with the television whispering to itself, and I'd locked the bedroom door, never blinking in the interim.

I'd called no one, not even Ivy. I'd tried not to, but when the panic set in, I wandered past the silent rooms, past the closed doors, until I reached the hallway. A woman across the street was trying to fold a stroller in her car trunk while her young son chased her skirts around in a circle, until she caught hold of his collar and smooched a loud kiss on his cheek, and he laughed

I looked away.

"Mr. Pierce, I need that money," I said, picking at the hardened bits of juice on my sleeve with my thumbnail. "Not for shoes or a house, but it's the only thing he ever gave me."

"I know, I'll do everything I can," he said, still reading. "Come to my office at four, bring the papers."