The Unwanted Wife And Her Billionaire Protector

Katrina Kline's fingers paused over the stack of cashmere sweaters. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the walk‑in closet—a space usually reserved for off‑season storage—and her knuckles brushed against the cold, hard edge of a device.

It was a spare iPad, one she'd never seen before. Frowning, she lifted it out. The screen lit up, demanding a passcode. She typed in her wedding anniversary with Dallas. Access Denied.

A cold knot formed in her stomach. Then, on a whim—a bitter thought she couldn't suppress—she typed in the birthday of Dallas's high school girlfriend, Ava Stone.

The screen unlocked instantly.

The air left her lungs in a sharp, painful rush. Her fingers, suddenly numb, tapped on the mail icon. The first email was a receipt from Victoria's Secret.

Katrina stared at the order details: a black lace bra, size 34C; a matching thong. The total was over three hundred dollars. Katrina was a 32A. The lingerie was not for her.

The soft beep‑beep of the keypad at the front door made her jump. Dallas was home.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She shoved the iPad back into the drawer, burying it under a wool scarf, her movements frantic and clumsy.

She walked out of the master bedroom and into the living room just as Dallas was shrugging off his custom‑tailored suit jacket.

"Hey," Dallas said, his voice the smooth, practiced baritone that had once made her feel safe. He stepped forward, his eyes full of a deceptive tenderness, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

The scent of his cologne—usually so comforting—now made her stomach churn. She forced a smile, a brittle curve of her lips that felt like a crack in her own face.

"Long day?" she asked.

Dallas sighed, rubbing his temples in that way he always did. "The session with Dr. Hoffman was useless. No progress. He's transferring me to some hotshot new specialist, a Kensington. Guy's supposed to be untouchable, but we'll see." He was talking about his erectile dysfunction—the supposed psychological trauma that had left their two‑year marriage completely sexless.

Katrina felt her fingernails dig into her palms. The sharp sting was the only thing keeping her grounded, the only thing stopping her from screaming.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she managed to say.

Her eyes fell to his jacket, draped carelessly over the back of their white leather sofa. A faint, sweet scent wafted from it. It wasn't her perfume. It was Tom Ford's Black Orchid—Ava Stone's signature scent.

"I need a shower." Dallas walked down the hallway to the master bathroom. A moment later, she heard the rush of water.

Katrina moved toward the sofa as if in a trance. Her hand, trembling slightly, slipped into the inner pocket of his jacket. Her fingers closed around a piece of stiff paper.

She pulled it out. It was a keycard holder from a boutique hotel in Tribeca. The date stamped on it was from last week—the three days he was supposedly at a tech conference in Silicon Valley.

A wave of nausea washed over her, so intense she had to grip the arm of the sofa to stay upright. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it all was a physical blow.

Her phone, sitting on the coffee table, vibrated. The screen lit up with an unknown New York number.

She hesitated for only a second before swiping to answer.

"Is this Katrina?" a hushed female voice asked.

"This is she."

"My name is Lena. I'm a receptionist at Dallas's firm. He fired me today because I refused to sleep with him. He thought he could just throw me away, but he forgot I manage the conference room recordings. You need to know something." The woman's words were rushed, laced with urgency. "Dallas doesn't have a psychological problem. He was just in his office with Ava Stone. They were all over each other."

Katrina's throat closed up. "That's not possible," she whispered. "He has a diagnosis. From a doctor."

A cold, humorless laugh came through the phone. "A diagnosis he paid for. Listen. I pulled this from the backup server before I left."

A click, and then she heard it. Dallas's voice, unmistakable, but dripping with a venom she'd never heard before. "I can't stand touching her. Just a few more months, Ava. Once the trust is liquidated, I'll be free of that frigid bitch, and we can be together."

A sob tore from Katrina's throat. Tears streamed down her face, hot and silent. The world—her perfect, carefully constructed world—was shattering around her.

The sound of the shower stopped.

The abrupt silence was more terrifying than the noise. He was coming out.

"I have to go," she choked out, ending the call. She wiped her eyes frantically with the back of her hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

She muted her phone and shoved it into her pocket. She ran back to the master bedroom, grabbed a pile of clean laundry from the basket, and started folding a bedsheet with shaking hands.

Dallas walked in, a towel slung around his hips, rubbing his wet hair with another. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist in a gesture of fake affection.

"Everything okay?" he murmured against her hair.

Katrina's body went rigid. The warmth of his skin felt reptilian. She looked at their reflection in the floor‑to‑ceiling windows—at the man holding her. And the soft, trusting woman she had been just ten minutes ago was gone forever.

In her place stood someone cold, sharp, and utterly clear. The seed of revenge had been planted.