From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress

From the back cover

I spent two years as the perfect, dutiful wife to Foster Baird. I was his unpaid PR consultant and his emotional punching bag, enduring his mother’s snide comments about my orphan background all for the sake of a "marriage" I thought was real.

But when I went to the City Clerk’s office to replace a damaged document, the clerk looked at me with genuine pity.

"There is no record of a marriage license for you and Foster Baird. Legally? You aren't married."

The betrayal went even deeper. I returned to our penthouse to find Foster’s mistress on our sofa, alongside a five-year-old boy who shared Foster’s exact features. Foster hadn't just cheated; he had a secret family that predated our entire relationship. He had even bribed a doctor to lie to me about being infertile just to keep me docile and focused on his business. When the mistress moved into my guest wing the next day, Foster demanded I act as their hostess and serve them dinner.

I watched them play happy family in the home I built, realizing I was never a wife—I was just "cheap labor" he intended to discard once his company stock stabilized. He thought I was a barren charity case with nowhere to go.

He was wrong. That same afternoon, I received a call from the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate. I wasn't a nobody; I was the long-lost biological daughter and sole heir to a five-billion-dollar fortune.

While Foster was busy planning my replacement, I was accessing the Kensington Trust. I didn't scream, and I didn't cry. I simply bought a fifty-million-dollar mansion and hired a team of forensic accountants to dismantle the Baird Group from the inside out. I crushed my old phone under my designer heel and looked at my new security detail.

"Let's get to work," I said.