Fake Wife Novels & Stories

She yawned, clearly uninterested. “No! Their marriage is fake!” Her eyes snapped open. “What?” “Yes!” her friend said excitedly. “Apparently, he faked the marriage so he could secure his inheritance or something. No wonder!” The girl gaped, then looked away. Her mother worked as a maid in the Wade mansion. She rarely spoke about her employer’s marriage, and Claire herself had never been interested, but if this was true… that meant they had deceived everyone. “You know what? I’ll be back,” she said suddenly, springing to her feet.

The woman was pretending to be his wife. “I don’t have her contact details. Can one of you contact her?” Eva was fast—she was already on it and put the phone on speaker. But I took it from her, and Kate’s sophisticated voice finally answered after three rings. “Hello?” “Your fake husband got a bit of bad news—and it was personal. He disappeared. Where could one find him?” I asked without missing a beat. “Miss Anderson?” She sounded a little surprised. “It’s Mila,” I shuddered at being called an Anderson now.

I was amazed that my mom finally agreed even though I already lied to Adriana that she already agreed. “Thanks mom, I'll be home tonight.” I said to her and ended the call. “Prepare, I'll be there till my wedding day.” I said to my Secretary and continued my journey to the room. “Finally she listened to me.” I muttered tiredly as I laid on the bed. I stretched my hand and grabbed a picture of my wife. “I miss you everyday.” I said calmly as I sat up on my head. The thought of the fake marriage makes me feel like I'm betraying her, but I can't help the situation right now. I just have to get a lady that'll stand in as a wife.

She whispered in his ear. He let go of her face, pulling her to his chest. "It's really my fake wife. Sophia. No. The name is wrong. It's So-Phie. You came for me. How'd you even find me here?" He asked, hugging her tightly to his chest. He suddenly felt alive at seeing her here beside him. Even though it might be an illusion. He shoved her away after some seconds, grabbing hold of his beer, again. Pinkerbell yanked it away, hissing.

"This marriage is fake!" Everyone gasps, and Adam pulls me close to him. Someone pushes a microphone towards the waitress, and she gives the journalist a big, fake smile. "Adam Owens is a fraud, and you shouldn't believe his lies. I'm his real wife, and I want what's mine!" She snarled. "That's right, everyone. I'm his real wife." Nina Dobrev. The gold digging waitress who married Adam in Vegas and as she calls herself; his real wife, or realish at least.

His hand brushed against mine intentionally, a lingering, scorching touch that made my fingers tremble. Kian flashed Julian a tight, corporate smile, but the moment my husband blinked, Kian’s gaze dropped straight to my high velvet collar, eyes flashing darkly. Cassian smirked openly. His tattooed fingers clamped tightly around the wine stem, his eyes pinning my lips with a predatory, shameless hunger. They were playing the game perfectly. We all pretended we had never met. We all pretended last night never happened. And as I stepped back, my heart hammering against my ribs, I desperately prayed to whatever god was listening that it would stay that way forever.

Since then, the youngest heir to the Vuitton tech fortune released a follow-up video—in clothes this time—apologizing, no doubt attempting to mend ties with the Bass family, whom the Vuittons invest heavily into. Good luck with that. In the video, she—or should I say her lawyer—explains the dangerous prevalence of artificial intelligence and deepfakes, painting Priscella as an innocent victim of some extortionate hacker, who has yet to be unveiled. Let me be the first to say, no one's believing that, Miss Vuitton. Not me, not my readers and especially not tycoons on Silicon Avenue. All of us know the truth... Those pixels were realer than every one of your "orgasms."

She wasn't me—her face was different, harder—but from a distance, the resemblance was enough. "I just want to say," the fake Elena said, her voice carrying over the crowd, "that everything Natasha Winters said is true. I had no idea the baby I'm carrying was created through fraud. I had no idea Calloway Sterling manipulated my fertility treatment. And now I'm trapped in a marriage I never truly consented to." No. No, no, no. "That's not me!" I shouted at the screen. "That's not—" But the reporters didn't know that. They were eating it up, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward.

"There's more." My stomach clenched. "What else?" "The pregnancy she announced. The one she claimed to have miscarried." He slid a medical record across the table. "There was no pregnancy, Miss Winfred. The medical records are fabricated. She was never pregnant." The restaurant wobbled sideways. I gripped the table harder, trying to anchor myself to something solid. "The pregnancy was fake?" The words barely made it past my throat. "The entire thing. The announcement, the miscarriage, all of it. Theater designed to trap your ex-husband into marriage."

EUDORA ON HIS BEHALF TO PLEASE SIGN THE DIVORCE PAPERS. My grip on the phone turned hard enough that my knuckles hurt. A fake pregnancy? A forged result? A miscarriage I supposedly staged? A womb I supposedly used as part of some twisted manipulation? And now I was the one “refusing” divorce papers? “What the fuck did I just read?”