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.
From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress Chapter 1
She wasn’t Celena Roberts anymore. And she certainly wasn’t Mrs. Baird. She wiped a smudge of dust from her skirt. It was time to meet Mr. Sterling.
Just hours earlier, it had all started with the feather duster.
The duster caught the edge of the silver frame on the high shelf. It wasn’t a hard knock, just a clumsy brush of movement, but it was enough.
Gravity took over. The frame tipped forward, tumbling through the air in what felt like slow motion before it smashed against the marble floor of the master bedroom.
The sound was a gunshot in the silent penthouse.
Celena Roberts flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped the duster and fell to her knees, her hands hovering over the jagged shards of glass. It was their wedding photo. Foster looked dashing in his tuxedo, his smile confident and possessive. She looked young, grateful, and naive.
“Stupid,” she whispered to herself, her fingers trembling. “So stupid.”
A vase of white hydrangeas had been knocked over in the chaos. Water pooled rapidly across the marble, soaking into the backing of the broken frame.
Panic flared in her chest. Foster hated mess. He hated incompetence even more.
She carefully peeled the wet cardboard backing away to save the photo. Behind the picture, folded into a tight square, was their marriage license. They had never framed it properly, just tucked it there for safekeeping two years ago.
Now, it was soaking wet.
Celena pulled the document out. The water had done its work instantly. The cheap ink of the date and the official seal was bleeding into an illegible blue smear.
Her stomach dropped. Tax season was coming up. Foster’s accountant had asked for a certified copy just yesterday. If she couldn’t produce this, Foster would look at her with that disappointed sigh that made her feel small enough to fit in a matchbox.
She checked her watch. 2:00 PM. Foster wouldn’t be back from the office until six.
She grabbed her purse, ignoring the glass on the floor for a moment. She could fix the mess later. Right now, she needed a replacement document.
The cab ride to the City Clerk’s office in lower Manhattan took forty minutes of agonizing stop-and-go traffic. Celena picked at her cuticles until they bled. She rehearsed her apology to Foster in her head, over and over.
I’m sorry, I was cleaning. I’m sorry, I’m clumsy. I’ll fix it.
The office was sterile, smelling of floor wax and stale coffee. She waited in line, shifting her weight from foot to foot. When her number was called, she rushed to the window.
“I need a certified copy of a marriage license,” Celena said, sliding her ID across the counter. “Foster Baird and Celena Roberts.”
The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and chipping nail polish, took the ID without looking up. She began typing.
Celena drummed her fingers on the countertop. Her phone buzzed in her purse-a reminder to pick up Foster’s dry cleaning. She silenced it.
The typing stopped. The clerk frowned at the screen.
“Date?” the clerk asked.
“June 14th, two years ago,” Celena said.
The typing resumed, louder this time. Then it stopped again.
“Are you sure about the date, honey?”
“Yes. It was a Saturday. We had the ceremony at the Baird estate.”
The clerk turned the monitor slightly. “I have no record of a marriage license filed for a Foster Baird and Celena Roberts on that date. Or any date.”
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Celena gripped the edge of the counter. “That’s impossible. We signed the papers. The officiant took them.”
The clerk looked at her with a pity that felt like a slap. “It happens more than you think. Officiant forgets, or maybe… maybe it just never got mailed. But legally? According to the State of New York? You aren’t married.”
The floor tilted. Celena felt bile rise in her throat.
Not married.
For two years, she had been the dutiful wife. She had endured the cold shoulders from his mother, the snide comments about her background, the endless hours working as his uncompensated “consultant” to fix the Baird Group’s PR disasters. She had signed pre-nups. She had signed NDAs.
But she hadn’t signed the one thing that mattered.
“Thank you,” Celena whispered. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
She walked out of the building, the city noise crashing over her. Horns, shouting, the rumble of the subway beneath the grate. She stood on the sidewalk, feeling completely untethered.
Her phone rang again. Not Foster. An unknown number.
She answered mechanically. “Hello?”
“Ms. Celena Roberts?” The voice was deep, gravelly, and serious.
“Yes.”
“This is Walter Sterling. I am the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate.”
Celena blinked, her brain struggling to process the name. Arthur Kensington. The titan of Wall Street. The man whose face was on every financial magazine cover until his death last week.
“I think you have the wrong number,” she said.
“I do not,” Sterling said. “We have been looking for you since the reading of the will. We were able to retrieve a DNA sample from your sealed medical file at St. Jude’s. It’s a match, Ms. Roberts. You are his biological daughter.”
Celena laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. “Is this a joke? I’m an orphan from St. Jude’s.”
“Arthur Kensington was your father. And you are the sole heir to the Kensington trust and assets. We need to meet. immediately.”
The irony tasted like copper in her mouth. Five minutes ago, she was a fake wife with nothing. Now, a stranger on the phone was telling her she owned half of Manhattan.
“I… I can’t right now,” she stammered. “I have to go home.”
“Ms. Kensington, please-“
She hung up.
The ride back to the penthouse was a blur. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. She felt hollowed out, scraped clean by shock.
She unlocked the front door of the penthouse quietly. It was 4:30 PM. Foster shouldn’t be home yet.
But the smell hit her first.
Heavy, floral perfume. Not hers.
Then, the sound. Giggling. Low, throaty laughter coming from the living room.
Celena moved silently across the foyer. She stopped at the edge of the hallway.
Foster was on the beige sofa. His jacket was off, his tie loosened. Straddling his lap was a woman with blonde waves and a backless dress. Ava Douglas. His “art consultant.”
Foster’s hand was tangled in Ava’s hair. He kissed her neck, murmuring something that made Ava shiver.
“When are you going to tell her?” Ava asked, pulling back slightly. Her voice was light, teasing.
Foster groaned, resting his forehead against hers. “Soon. I just need her to finish the quarterly report. She’s useful, Ava. Cheap labor.”
“She’s a bore,” Ava pouted. “And she can’t even give you an heir.”
“I know,” Foster said, his voice dripping with contempt. “A barren charity case. As soon as the stock stabilizes, I’ll cut her loose. I promise.”
Celena stood in the shadows. The broken glass from the picture frame was still in her pocket, sharp edges pressing against her thigh through the fabric.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t storm in.
A coldness spread from her chest to her fingertips, freezing the tears before they could fall. She watched them for another ten seconds, memorizing the angle of his head, the cruelty of his smile.
Then, she turned around and walked back to the elevator. She pressed the button.
From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress Chapter 2
Celena waited in the lobby for ten minutes before going back up. When she entered the penthouse the second time, she made sure to let the heavy front door slam shut.
“Honey? I’m home!” she called out, her voice bright and brittle.
In the living room, the scramble was pathetic. Foster jumped up, smoothing his hair, his face flushed. Ava was standing by the window, pretending to examine a sculpture, though her blouse was buttoned wrong.
“You’re early,” Foster said, an edge of accusation in his tone.
“Traffic was light,” Celena lied. She walked past him, dropping her keys in the bowl. She didn’t kiss him. She didn’t look at Ava. “I’m going to shower. I feel… dirty.”
Foster narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
The next morning, Celena sat on the crinkling paper of an exam table in a private clinic on the Upper East Side. Dr. Evans, a specialist recommended by Walter Sterling, was reviewing her chart.
The room smelled of antiseptic and lemon.
“Ms. Roberts-sorry, Ms. Kensington,” Dr. Evans corrected himself, glancing at the file Sterling had sent over.
“Celena is fine,” she said, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “Just tell me the truth. Foster’s family doctor told me two years ago, right after we were married, that my uterus was infantile. That I could never carry a child.”
Dr. Evans turned the monitor toward her. The ultrasound image was grainy, black and white, but to him, it was clear.
“That is a lie,” Dr. Evans said bluntly. “Your reproductive system is perfectly healthy. There is absolutely no physiological reason you cannot conceive.”
Celena stared at the screen. The white noise in her head grew louder.
“He lied?” Her voice broke.
“He either lied, or he was grossly incompetent. Given the Baird family’s influence… I would lean toward the former.” Dr. Evans printed the image and slid it into a folder. “You are fertile, Celena.”
She walked out of the clinic with the envelope pressed against her chest. It wasn’t just a medical record; it was a verdict. Foster hadn’t just cheated; he had stolen her womanhood, her hope, her self-worth, just to keep her docile. Just to justify whatever plans he had.
As she stepped onto the sidewalk, a black town car pulled up silently to the curb. The back window lowered, revealing Walter Sterling’s grave face. “Get in, Ms. Kensington. We have much to discuss, and very little time.” Inside the quiet, leather-scented interior, he presented her with a slim portfolio. She signed a preliminary document acknowledging her identity, and he handed her a heavy, titanium black card and a sealed envelope containing login credentials. “This is your preliminary access. The full transfer of assets will take time, but you are no longer without resources. Use them.”
When she returned to the penthouse, Foster was waiting in the foyer. There was a large, flat box wrapped in a red bow sitting on the floor.
He smiled, that charming, boyish smile that used to make her knees weak. Now, it just looked like a predator showing its teeth.
“For you,” he said, gesturing to the box. “I know I’ve been busy lately. I wanted to show my appreciation.”
Celena approached the box. She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside was a ridiculously expensive cashmere loungewear set. It was beautiful, soft as a cloud, and utterly domestic. The kind of thing one wore to gracefully oversee a household, not to run a boardroom.
She stared at it.
“I know how much you value our home,” Foster said, stepping behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. His voice was gentle, laced with the poison of pity. “Since… well, since we can’t have a family of our own, I thought this might help you embrace your role here. Find your purpose in making our life beautiful.”
Bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic. The cruelty was so casual, so effortlessly wrapped in a veneer of care.
“Purpose,” she repeated flatly.
“Exactly. You’re so good at the little things, Celena.” He kissed the top of her head. “I have a dinner with investors tonight. Don’t wait up.”
“Investors,” she said.
“Big accounts. Gotta keep the lights on.” He squeezed her shoulders one last time, then grabbed his coat and left.
The moment the door clicked shut, the silence of the apartment roared back.
Celena looked at the cashmere set. She looked at the expensive gray fabric, designed to keep her comfortable in her cage.
She gripped the box. Her knuckles turned white.
She didn’t even take the clothes out.
She dragged the box to the service elevator, hauled it down the hall to the trash chute room, and shoved the entire thing-box, bow, and cashmere-into the chute.
The thud as it hit the compactor three floors down was the most satisfying sound she had heard in years.
She returned to the apartment and went straight to her small desk in the corner of the guest bedroom-her “office.” She pulled out her phone and dialed Sterling.
“I want a forensic accountant,” she said the moment he picked up.
“Ms. Kensington?”
“I want to know every cent the Baird Group has. I want to know where the bodies are buried. And Sterling?”
“Yes?”
“Send the security team. I have a feeling I’m going to need them soon.”
She hung up and looked at her reflection in the darkened window. The woman staring back wasn’t the orphan who cleaned up messes. She was the woman who was about to make one.
From Fake Wife To Billionaire Heiress Chapter 3
A week later, the atmosphere in the penthouse shifted from cold to suffocating.
“We’re hosting a dinner tonight,” Foster announced over his morning coffee, not bothering to look up from his tablet. “Ava is officially joining as the Art Consultant. I want to welcome her properly.”
“Of course,” Celena said, buttering her toast with mechanical precision. “How many guests?”
“Just us. And Ava. Oh, and she’s bringing her foster child. The poor kid has nowhere else to go.”
Celena paused. “A child?”
“Leo. He’s five. Try not to scare him with your sour face.”
At 7:00 PM, the doorbell rang.
Ava swept in wearing a silk dress that cost more than Celena’s entire wardrobe. Beside her was a small boy with unruly dark hair and a scowl that mirrored Foster’s perfectly.
“Leo, say hello to Mrs. Baird,” Ava cooed, though her eyes mocked Celena.
Leo looked at Celena, marched up to her, and kicked her hard in the shin.
“Ouch!” Celena stumbled back, gripping the console table.
Ava laughed, a tinkling, fake sound. “Oh, he’s just high spirits! He doesn’t like strangers.”
“I live here,” Celena said through gritted teeth.
“Right. Well.” Ava breezed past her into the living room.
Dinner was a torture session. Celena served the roast she had spent three hours cooking. Foster ignored her, focusing entirely on Leo.
“Do you want me to cut that for you, sport?” Foster asked, his voice tender in a way Celena had never heard. He sliced the boy’s meat with surgical care.
Celena watched them. She watched the way Leo held his fork-clumsily, aggressively.
Then, Leo dropped his napkin. Frustrated, he reached up and rubbed his left earlobe with his thumb and forefinger, tugging it rhythmically.
Celena froze. The wine bottle in her hand hovered over Foster’s glass.
Foster let out a sigh as the cork on the second bottle crumbled. Frustrated, he reached up. He rubbed his left earlobe with his thumb and forefinger.
The exact same motion. The exact same rhythm.
The world narrowed down to those two hands.
Celena looked at Leo’s eyes. One was a deep, chocolate brown. The other was a flecked hazel-green. Heterochromia.
Foster’s mother, Victoria Baird, had the exact same eyes. Celena had seen those mismatched eyes a hundred times at family gatherings, but in her desperate need to believe in the perfect life she thought she had, her brain had simply refused to make the connection. Until now. Now, with the veil of love torn away, the truth was brutally, painfully obvious.
It wasn’t just an affair. It wasn’t just a fake marriage.
Leo wasn’t a foster child. He was Foster’s son.
They had a child. A five-year-old child. Which meant this affair had been going on for at least six years. Before she even met Foster.
“I want ice cream!” Leo shouted, slamming his fist on the table.
“We don’t have ice cream, Leo,” Celena said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.
Foster snapped his head toward her. “Then go get some. God, Celena, can’t you do anything right?”
He pulled his wallet out and slid his credit card across the mahogany table. It spun and stopped at her fingertips.
“Go. Vanilla. And don’t take all night.”
Ava placed her hand on Foster’s knee under the table. Celena saw the shift in fabric. She saw the smirk Ava tried to hide behind her wine glass.
Celena picked up the card. It felt cold and heavy.
“Sure,” she said.
She walked out of the apartment. She took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out into the cool night air.
She didn’t go to the bodega on the corner. She walked three blocks to a bank ATM.
She inserted Foster’s card. She knew the PIN. It was his birthday. Narcissist.
She checked the balance. Then she hit ‘Withdraw’. She took out the daily maximum. Five hundred dollars.
She stared at the cash. It was nothing compared to what she was worth now, but this was his.
She went to a drugstore and bought a pint of generic, freezer-burned vanilla ice cream for four dollars.
Walking back, she looked up at the penthouse window. They were up there, playing happy family. They thought she was the servant, the barrier, the fool.
She wasn’t the barrier. She was the bank. And she was about to foreclose.
She re-entered the apartment. Foster and Leo were on the floor building a tower with blocks. Ava was lounging on the sofa, her shoes off.
“Finally,” Foster grumbled.
Celena set the ice cream on the table with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A smile that was all teeth.
“Enjoy,” she said.