The CEO’s Unwanted Wife

Raine

"Do you think this will save your world?"

Cassian Ashcroft's tone was low, but its sharp edge resonated through the glass walls of the boardroom. I looked away from the contract, my heartbeat pounding hard enough to be heard. Outside, the city lights faded into dusk; within, every deep breath felt tension-charged, as though the room held its breath to itself, holding all its participants in suspense.

I pressed my fingers into the sleek table, and the chill of the surface stability met my trembling hand. "It has to," I replied with a strained voice. My prosthetic leg stirred as I settled into the chair—a constant reminder of the crash that had taken so much from me. The last lifeline I had was saving my mother's gallery. This contract was my only option, regardless of what it cost.

Cassian's expression was blank. He sat opposite me, suit wrinkle-free, and posture perfect. Steel-blue and unreadable eyes met mine for a moment before focusing back on the pages between us. The lawyer stood by, silent, pen raised. Expectation filled the air, every second edged with consequence.

I breathe in slowly. The contract terms had been spelled out: a year of marriage, strictly business, no emotions, full release of my stepfather's grip on the gallery. In exchange, I would have financial stability to rebuild my life. I had rehearsed my determination so many times: sign, protect the gallery, and depart when our contract ends. But being across from Cassian at this table, I felt the weight of those words in a way I never had before.

"If you sign," Cassian said after a moment, "there's no going back." His look was cautionary, but hard. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked up at him. "I understand."

I lifted the pen. Ink caught the light of the overhead lamp. My hand shook as I signed my name—Raine Ellery—on the dotted line. The sound of scratching ink on paper was too harsh in the silence. I exhaled, chest tight, as relief and terror mingled.

Cassian leaned forward and grabbed the pen. Below mine—Cassian Ashcroft—he signed in a swift, precise motion. The moment his name was signed, an unusual silence settled, as though we had awakened something beyond our control.

Cassian went pale. His hand flew to his chest. "No…” he whispered, voice strangled.

He stumbled forward. My chair scraped against the floor as I pushed back, panic surging. "Cassian!" I screamed, but he crumpled at my feet, body folding in on itself. The pen hit the floor.

The silence of the boardroom exploded in a second. I scrambled from my seat, with a racing heart. My cane clattered over the edge of the table as I pushed it aside. Cassian was still on the floor, lips pale, and eyes opening and closing out of consciousness.

“Help!" I screamed. The lawyer gaped and then grabbed his phone. Security burst in seconds later, followed by a medic team summoned through hidden intercoms. I knelt beside Cassian, pressing my hand against his forehead, cold and damp. His breathing was shallow and unsteady.

Marianne, his personal assistant, came to the door, worry etched on her face. "He's down!" she cried, kneeling beside me. "Call an ambulance!

Two medics knelt and watched for pulse and airway. I stood back, holding my breath in my chest, watching monitors in my head, watching for any sign that he would wake. Cassian's eyes fluttered open once, glazed with pain, then they closed again. I held his wrist, feeling the feeble pulse shivering like a dying bird.

They placed him on a stretcher. I followed behind in fear. Cameras of concealed security monitors likely recorded every action: Raine Ellery steadying the tumbling giant of Ashcroft Holdings. I braced myself against the chilled wall as they wheeled him away, words echoing: "Stay with me, Cassian…"

As the door closed, I fell to the floor, legs shaking, mind spinning. The contract lay abandoned on the table—a promise signed in ink that now looked like a gravestone. I pressed my palm against my lips, suppressing a scream. He can't be dead. Not now. Not like this.

Sirens wailed in the distance as the ambulance sped off. I swayed, leaning on the wall. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pulled it out: first messages already flooding in. Headlines lit up the screen:

"Ashcroft CEO Dies Minutes After Secret Marriage"

"Bride of Bad Luck? New Wife Blamed for Collapse"

My stomach twisted. I collapsed into a chair, hands over my eyes. All I'd hoped for was to save the gallery; what I'd done was sign my name and watch the man collapse. And now the world would think I am cursed, or worse.

I had a knock. Marianne stood in the doorway, face ashen. "Miss Ellery, the hospital… " Her voice shaking. "They pronounced him dead on arrival."

I was numb. Dead. The word echoed like a curse. I stood, every fiber wanting to run, but my legs refused to move in steady strides. I gripped the armrest to remain upright.

Marianne turned her head away, swallowing. "There… there's a board meeting scheduled. And the press…"

I nodded, barely whispering: "I'll be there."

She hesitated, then stepped back, shutting the door quietly. Alone, I gazed at the contract on the table in my mind's eye: our signatures now linking me irrevocably to his name, and to suspicion.

I tossed my phone onto the chair. The screen flashed once more with a fresh message from Cassian's email address. My heart skipped a beat. I opened it: a single attachment labeled "WatchThis.mp4"—dated after his death. My mouth went dry. I hit play: a brief snippet of Cassian on some balcony somewhere far away, hair blowing in the wind, smiling—then clutching his chest, eyes bulging in terror. The clip just cut off. The text overlay that came up read: "Not everything is as it seems."

I had let the phone drop. It slid off the chair and clattered to the floor. My breath was streaming in short shards. Not everything is what it seems. The words burned into my mind. My heart thudded: Who sent this? How could this be? And why was I being shown a man who had already been declared dead?

City lights fluttered by the windows. Rain began tapping at the panes. I stood up, my legs shaking, but my resolve was hardening. Cassian Ashcroft's fall had triggered a storm—boardroom battles, media frenzy, rumors of a curse—and now this mysterious video hinted at even deeper secrets. I placed my hand on the cold glass, staring into the night. The world believed him dead; I had proof he might not be. Or that someone wanted me to think so.

My phone called again—a calendar alert whose subject read "Emergency Board Meeting: Today, 9 AM." I glanced at my watch: 7:30 pm. Some hours until I faced a room full of questions, accusations, and hungry rivals. I inhaled nervously alone, recalling my purpose: rescuing my mother's gallery had brought me to this place, but surviving this would take more than survival. I needed to uncover the truth.

I pulled the memory of the contract to my mind—the pen was not dry yet when Cassian fell. Those signatures had now become the anchor pulling me into danger I could not even begin to fathom. I pressed my knuckles to the glass, rain streaming my reflection: a woman bound by an oath she never wished for, to meet a future built on a lie.

As I stepped forward to leave, the lights flickered. The floor seemed tilted beneath me for a moment. Between the silence, I heard the thud of my heart in my ears, and the final thought settled in my mind: I had signed my name on the dotted line, but now I had to discover whose hand guided the pen beyond the boardroom.

I grabbed my coat and cane, every sense heightened. The corridor ahead of me was dimly lit, waiting. I slipped my phone into my pocket, my thoughts working over questions that no one could yet solve. The first clue had been in that recording—someone was watching, someone was plotting. And if Cassian's death was no accident, I would be the one to discover why.

I took one step forward, each click of my prosthetic foot echoing down the quiet corridor. My image in the glass doors trailed behind me: Raine Ellery, newly widowed wife, cursed by rumors. But I would not be broken. I would fight the storm that I had unleashed.

The elevator door opened. I entered, and the mirror walls showed me myself on all sides—weak and determined, vulnerable yet unbroken. The doors closed, and I faced reflection squarely: the world believed Cassian Ashcroft was dead; I had evidence of secrets more lethal than any punch.

The elevator descended. Outside, the storm still raged. I gripped the railing with clenched white fists. Tomorrow, I'd be tested in the boardroom; tonight, I'd chase the shadows of reality. And in the coming darkness, I knew one thing for sure: nothing in this marriage, or his murder, would ever appear as it first seemed.