The Billionaire’s Paper Wife

Lena Hart hadn’t meant to break the watch.

She’d arrived at the West Ward Gallery that evening with exactly two goals: sell at least one painting and pretend her world wasn’t on the brink of collapse. She spent the afternoon attaching her hopes to the small, sunlit canvases she had made.Each was priced just enough to cover an overdue bill—her mother’s clinic f*e, her brother’s new semester deposit, the electricity that kept her tiny studio lit after midnight.

The wealthy guests walked by her artwork but hardly stopped. They said polite comments like, “I love the brush texture,” and “Such fresh color,” before moving on to the more famous artists, glasses of champagne in their well-groomed hands.

Lena pushed a curl behind her ear, forcing a smile to stay in place. It’s okay. One sale is all it takes.

She didn’t let herself think about what would happen if she sold none.

It all went wrong during her second lap of the room. She’d been arguing—quietly at first—with a junior curator who’d “accidentally” rearranged her price cards. One sharp remark led to another, and Lena threw her hand out in frustration. 

Then, she accidentally dropped the watch. 

It fell to the marble floor with a loud crack that broke the silence in the gallery. 

Lena stopped, her breath catching in her throat.Oh no.

Elegant conversation dissolved into shocked silence. A woman in a silver gown gasped. A man near the entrance stepped back, as if shards might scatter beneath his shoes. The faint smell of turpentine on Lena’s fingers seemed suddenly too sharp, too out of place among the notes of expensive perfume.

She dropped to her knees, instinctively reaching to fix what couldn’t be fixed—

“Don’t.”

The single word, quiet but absolute, stopped her cold.

She looked up, and the breath fled her lungs.

The man standing over her was tall and broad, wearing a perfectly fitted black suit. His dark hair was slicked back, and his jaw was strong and defined. But it was his icy, assessing eyes that held her attention. They weren’t just looking; they were measuring.

“That watch,” he said calmly, “cost more than most people make in a year.”

"I did not mean to," Lena said, her voice too low for the room.

“No.” He crouched next to the broken clock. “You didn’t.”  

For one awful second she expected shouting, accusations, and belittling. Instead, he lightly touched the cracked glass, stood up slowly, and looked at her with his cold, icy eyes.

“You’re shaking.”

Lena crossed her arms, though it did nothing to steady them. “I just broke something that probably belonged to a Swiss prince. Forgive me for having a pulse.”

A flicker of amusement touched his lips and it was gone before she knew it. 

“You’re not afraid of me,” he observed.

“It’s been a long week,” she said, lifting her chin. Fear would have to wait its turn behind exhaustion and overdue rent.

She reminded herself why she was here: money. Enough to keep her mother’s dialysis treatments on track, enough to keep her brother, Noah, from dropping out of college for a semester again.

Two weeks earlier, she’d signed a twenty-five-page contract with this stranger—Zane Caldwell, tech magnate and notorious Wall Street prodigy. The agreement had sounded almost simple: three months of public appearances as his fiancée in exchange for a life-changing sum. No romance, no strings, just image management.

He stepped closer, filling her vision with starched shirtfront and quiet power.

“Do you know why I chose you?” he asked.

Lena swallowed. “Because your assistant said I was photogenic?”

“Partly.” That fleeting half-smile again. “Mostly because you don’t flinch.”

She blinked. “That’s your requirement for a fake wife? No flinching?”

“That—” his gaze flicked to the ruined watch “—and you’re not the type to fall in love easily.”

Her heart stuttered, but she held his stare. “Good. I’m not interested in fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales don’t usually start with breaking things,” he said.

“No,” Lena answered, forcing calm, “they usually end that way.”

His jaw twitched. He turned as if to call a staff member over, but then he stopped.

“I want to amend the contract.”

Lena’s pulse skipped. “Excuse me?”

“We’re moving up the wedding. Next week.”

She nearly choked. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“The press is circling; my board is nervous,” he said. “I need stability now.”

“You want me to marry you next week?”

“Not marry.” His voice stayed even. “Appear married. There’s a difference.”

Her carefully planned timeline—slow, controlled, and emotion-free—fell apart like paper.

“What else are you changing?”

“You’ll move in. Tonight.”

Lena exhaled sharply. “Zane—”

He stepped closer, eyes unreadable. “I’ll increase your f*e.”

Silence stretched. She saw Noah’s tuition invoices. Her mother’s medication list. The eviction notice folded under her toaster.

“How much more?” she whispered.

He named a figure that made her knees weak.

This  wasn’t neat or controlled anymore—it was like being thrown into the ocean. But Lena Hart had been surviving tough situations since she was young. She didn’t give up; she fought harder.  

She looked him straight in the eye. “Okay. But if we’re doing this, I have rules too.” 

An eyebrow arched. “I’m listening.”

“No surprises. No locked doors. And no more watches I can’t afford to replace.”

A quick, dry smile flashed across his face. "Deal."

Outside, the gallery began to buzz again, but Lena barely heard. She felt the contract tighten around her like an invisible thread, pulling her toward a life she hadn’t imagined when she’d woken that morning in her one-room apartment above a noisy laundromat.

As Zane guided her toward a waiting town car, flashes from paparazzi cameras sparked at the entrance. Already, rumors would spin: Who is she? How did she land him?

Lena squared her shoulders. Let them talk. She had bills to pay, a family to protect, and no room left for fear.

Behind her, the broken watch glittered like scattered starlight on marble—proof that fairy tales don’t always start with happily ever after. Sometimes they start with shattered glass and a choice too heavy for fragile hearts.

And Lena Hart, for better or worse, had made her choice.