Marrying My Fake Husband's Rival Chapter 1

They call me a gold digger.

It’s the label that has defined me ever since my wedding day, when I halted the ceremony and refused to walk down the aisle unless my groom—the sole heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire—handed over half a million dollars in cold, hard cash.

From that day on, in Christian’s eyes, every breath I took had a transaction fee.

If I made sure his dinner was warm when he came home late, I was looking for a handout.

If I fell ill, I was staging a tragedy to solicit a wire transfer.

Even when I worked eighty-hour weeks at Albright Industries, refusing a salary to prove my dedication, he simply assumed I was playing the long game—positioning myself to clean him out for good.

It took Christian accusing me of faking a high fever for the ninety-ninth time, leaving me shivering on the floor while he jetted off for a weekend getaway with another woman, for something inside me to finally snap.

I took our marriage certificate and went to file for divorce.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the clerk said, pushing the paper back to me with a look of quiet pity. "But this certificate is a counterfeit. According to our system, you’re still single. We’ll have to confiscate this."

Her words echoed in my skull all the way back to the empty mansion.

I wanted to call Christian. I wanted to scream, to ask him why. But when I reached his study to look for proof of our filing, the heavy mahogany door was slightly ajar. I stopped when I heard his friend Wyatt’s laughter drifting out.

"So, Christian, you never actually registered the license with the gold digger? You’re playing the field openly, and you aren’t even worried she’ll walk?"

Christian’s voice was cool, dismissive, entirely stripped of the warmth he used to possess.

"Just make sure she doesn't find out about the fake certificate. If she wants to blame someone, she can blame her own greed. She failed the test. Every time I remember her demanding cash at the altar, I feel sick. Registering a real marriage with a woman like that would only tarnish what little love I have left."

Behind the door, a cold, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had kept blocked for months—the direct line to Christian’s fiercest competitor.

"You know that offer you made? The one where you said you’d pay handsomely for core intelligence?" I whispered, my voice steadying with every syllable. "How much are we talking?"

If they wanted me to be a gold digger, I might as well start digging.

* * *

Wyatt’s laughter boomed through the hallway.

"Man, you really pulled off a masterpiece on the wedding day. Hiring those fake debt collectors to show up, claiming her little sister Michelle owed half a million dollars in predatory student loans... threatening to sue her and have her expelled right before her finals. Pure genius."

A test.

The word detonated in my feverish brain. I stumbled back, my limbs turning to lead, dragging myself toward my bedroom like a ghost navigating a graveyard.

On my wedding day, Michelle, always my sweet, responsible little sister, had vanished.

Then came the video on my phone. She was bound to a wooden chair by the docks, crying, while a rough voice demanded $500,000.

My father—a man whose only consistent trait was his gambling addiction—had already run off with the trust money Christian’s family had set aside for us. I was entirely broke.

To the wealthy elite sitting in the pews, half a million dollars was pocket change.

To me, it was a mountain. It was my sister's life.

So I did the only thing I could do. In my white tulle wedding gown, I fell to my knees in front of Christian, sobbing, begging him to lend me the money.

I will never forget the disgust etched into his handsome face.

"Jane," he’d said, looking down at me as if I were dirt under his leather shoes. "Did you seriously choose today, of all days, to shake me down for cash?"

"I told you," I had cried, grabbing the hem of his trousers. "Once we’re married, Michelle is my sister too. I’ll handle everything. But please, I need it now. It’s a loan, I swear I’ll pay you back!"

He shook his head, stepping away from my touch.

No matter how low I bowed, no matter how much I wept, he refused.

In the five years that followed, I lived in a prison of my own guilt. I blamed myself for not watching over Michelle closely enough, for failing to hide the trust funds from my father, for humiliating Christian in front of high society. I took his coldness, his mockery, and his affairs without a single word of complaint because I believed I deserved it.

But it was a play. A performance. A twisted loyalty test written, produced, and directed by Christian Albright.

I opened my phone, pulled Devon Sinclair out of my blocked contacts, and tapped out a message.

How much is the proprietary trade data worth to you?

My fingers shook as I pressed send. Not from fear, but from the sheer, icy chill that had settled into my bones.

For five years, I had worked at Albright Industries as an unpaid consultant. I had structured their green energy portfolios, optimized their supply chains, and reviewed their unreleased financial reports. I knew every secret they had. A single leak would ruin them.

Yet, even as the message delivered, a small, pathetic part of me hesitated. Just wait, I told myself. Maybe he has a shred of humanity left. Maybe you don’t have to burn it all down.

The fever was clawing at my throat, and the shock of what I’d heard made the room spin. The edges of my vision went dark. As I started to fall, my hand instinctively reached out, catching the sleeve of a passerby.

"Please... get me some medicine," I rasped.

Before I could even register his scent, a harsh force shoved me away. I hit the hardwood floor, hard.

Christian stood over me, brushing off his sleeve with blatant disgust.

"Jane! Are you seriously addicted to the drama? Acting out a tragic collapse right in the hallway? Do you think I don’t see right through you?"

I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, forcing my voice to carry a rare, sharp edge.

"What if I am? You call me a gold digger, Christian. But tell me—have you given me a single dollar since the day we allegedly married?"

Even the $500,000 I supposedly "extorted" from him had been wired back to his account the moment Michelle was released. And the millions I had generated for Albright Industries over the last five years? I hadn't seen a cent of it.

I owed him nothing.

If I hadn't spent consecutive nights working myself to the bone to save his logistics department, my immune system wouldn't have collapsed.

"Christian," I whispered, tears finally spilling over. "If you want me to die on this floor tonight, go ahead. Walk out."

I tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept coming, hot and relentless.

A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and threw a few thousand dollars into my personal account via an app.

"Take the money and cut the act. It’s pathetic."

By the time the notification popped up on my screen, his footsteps were already fading down the driveway.

I slumped against the baseboard, crying out with the last of my strength. "Is anyone there? Please, help me to bed."

The house remained dead silent. A maid walked past the end of the hall, glanced at me, and kept walking.

I had forgotten. In this house, I wasn't the lady of the manor. I was just the gold digger who had forced her way in.

I crawled to my feet, bracing myself against the walls, but the darkness claimed me before I even reached the door.