The Unwanted Wife's Secret Billionaire Identity

The wall clock in the dark living room ticked—two in the morning.

Herminia Goodman sat motionless on the cold leather sofa, her bare legs tucked under the hem of an old cotton nightgown. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a city that never slept, but inside the penthouse, the air hung thick and dead.

Her phone screen lit up on the glass coffee table. The sudden glare cut through the silence. Herminia leaned forward, her fingers stiff, and picked up the device. A multimedia message from an unknown number.

She tapped the screen. A high-definition photo loaded.

Her breath stopped.

Bradley. Lying in a bed, eyes closed in peaceful sleep. But the background hit her like a punch to the gut. She recognized those custom silk sheets. Their master bedroom.

At the edge of the frame, a woman's hand with bright red nail polish rested against Bradley's bare chest.

A second message popped up immediately.

"Sister, my brother-in-law looks so handsome when he sleeps. It's a pity you never get to see this."

Herminia's knuckles went bone-white around the phone.

She knew that tone. She knew that red nail polish. Kristal Rodriguez. Her half-sister.

Nausea churned in her stomach, cold and sharp. She slammed the phone face-down on the table.

The front door unlocked.

The heavy oak door pushed open. Warm light from the corridor spilled into the entryway. Bradley Elliott walked in, tall and broad-shouldered, a gust of cold autumn air swirling around him. He tossed his suit jacket onto the rack and pulled at his tie, loosening it.

He paused, noticing the figure on the sofa. Frowning, he hit the wall switch. The crystal chandelier blazed on, harsh and white. Herminia squinted, raising a hand to block the glare, and stared at the man walking toward her.

As he got closer, a scent hit her—sweet, cloying vanilla perfume. Kristal's signature.

Herminia stood. Her voice came out flat. "Where were you tonight?"

Bradley's eyes flicked away for a fraction of a second. He rubbed his jaw. "Working late. Crisis at the company."

A hollow laugh escaped her. She grabbed the phone and walked up to him, shoving the bright screen against his chest. "Working?"

Bradley looked down. His pupils shrank. The color drained from his face, then a hot, dark flush crawled up his neck. He snatched the phone from her hand. "Where did you get this photoshopped garbage?"

Herminia watched him. His first instinct was to lie. The last bit of warmth she'd held onto drained away, leaving her chest hollow and cold.

"Look at the background, Bradley," she said, her voice eerily calm. "That custom bedside lamp. Only one in the world. It's in our bedroom."

Caught, Bradley's face twisted. He hurled the phone onto the sofa.

"Fine!" His voice shot up, veins bulging in his neck. "Kristal is terrified of thunderstorms. She had a panic attack. I went to the guest room to calm her down. Nothing happened!"

"You needed to take your shirt off to calm her down?" Herminia asked. "You needed to get into bed with her?"

Bradley looked away, jaw clenching. "She just got back to the country. She has no security. You're her sister. Why is your mind so dirty?"

Herminia's chest tightened, a dull weight pressing down on her lungs. She took a slow step back. She looked at him head to toe, like she was seeing a complete stranger for the first time.