The Billionaire Who Took my Husband's Place

(Helena’s POV)I told myself I wouldn’t go, that I had dignity and I still had options. But dignity didn’t pay the bills. And the bank didn’t accept pride as currency.So I stood in front of Cavendish & Co., my heart pounding, knowing this was my last chance to crawl out of the wreckage Daniel had left behind.It had taken me an hour to gather the nerve to call him. Another hour to talk myself into stepping into the black car he had sent. And now, as I stared at the massive glass doors before me, I wondered if I had made the worst mistake of my life.I stepped inside, my heels clicking against the polished floors, and barely had a moment to collect myself before a poised, impeccably dressed woman at the front desk glanced up."Mrs. Whitmore?" she asked smoothly, already expecting me. "Mr. Cavendish is waiting for you. Follow me."I exhaled slowly, steeling myself. There was no turning back now. He led me to the private elevator, and I rode up in silence, my fingers twisting around t

(Adrian’s POV) There should have been flowers, music, laughter or perhaps a lace-trimmed handkerchief delicately dabbing at a joyful tear. Weddings were meant to be grand affairs, filled with promises and scandalous dances under glittering chandeliers. But this wedding wasn't it. Instead it was a dimly lit conference room at the Celeste Regent Hotel with a disinterested officiant shuffling papers like this was a tax audit rather than the binding of two lives together. It was Helena, the bride in black, standing rigidly before me, looking as if she were walking to the gallows instead of the altar. Helena does not wear white, of course, she won't, she was never going to make this easy for me. She is definition of rebellion wrapped in silk, a reminder that this is not love. Yet, here we are. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes drift past my shoulder, toward the door, like she’s thinking about running. But I know she won’t, not because she wants this, but because she has no other cho

(Helena’s POV) There are three universal truths about high society that you should know. One, No one ever truly cares about charity galas. It’s just an excuse for powerful men to stroke their egos and for their wives to wear gowns they’ve been dying to show off. Two, The second you show weakness, they will eat you alive, and they do it with a smile and a glass of champagne, and three, I am the main course tonight. The car slowed as we neared the Grand Bellemont Hotel, where cameras flashed like a firing squad waiting for the kill. I exhaled, fingers clenching around my clutch. "This is a mistake." Adrian didn’t look up, still adjusting his cufflinks with calm, deliberate movements. Like he wasn’t about to walk us into a lion’s den. "It’s only a mistake if you make it one," he said smoothly. I turned to him, irritation curling in my stomach. "And what exactly does that mean?" "It means," he bellowed, "that whatever they say, however they look at you, it only matters if you let it

(Adrian’s POV) The silence in the car was suffocating, not because neither of us are speaking to each other. But because I’m still seeing red. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles tight, veins flexing, trying to steady the anger still clawing inside me. Briefly I glanced at her, she didn't even know. Didn't know how fucking close I was to wrecking that entire café. To putting my fist through a reporter’s face and taking her out of there before they could take another piece of her. My teeth grinding together and jaw tightening. I could still see them, the way they circled her. Like she was weak. Like she wasn’t mine. Helena shifts beside me, I could tell she's pissed. Good. Because so am I, and the fire between us is only getting hotter. A few minutes later, the mansion comes into view. My grip tightens on the wheel as I pull into the driveway, the sharp turn making the tires screech against the pavement. The second the car stops, Helena shoves the door open and storm

Helena’s POV I woke up to the sound of the wind rattling against the window, a slow, eerie creak that sent a shiver down my spine. The room was dim, the early morning light barely creeping past the heavy curtains. For a second, I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, my body tensed up. Then, it hit me. Today was the anniversary of Daniel’s death, a cold, hollow feeling settled in my chest. Pushing back the blankets and sitting up, I rubbed my eyes. The clock on the nightstand blinked at me—6:42 AM. I swallowed, forcing the lump in my throat down. I wasn’t going to cry, Daniel wouldn't want me to do that. There were some things you don’t let go of, no matter how much time passes. A soft knock on the door broke through interrupting me from my thoughts. “Come in.” i said in a hazy voice. I turned, expecting the housekeepers but it was Adrian. Standing in the doorway, tie undone, hair slightly tousled like he’d been up for hours. His gaze swept over me, lingeri