For two years, I was the invisible force behind tech billionaire Kieran Douglas, convinced that our “private” romance was his way of protecting us from the tabloid spotlight. I managed his mergers, warmed his bed, and waited for a future that didn’t exist.
The illusion shattered at 6:00 AM when a Page Six alert debuted Kieran’s “real” romance with socialite Aspen Schneider. Before I could even process the betrayal, Kieran sent me a cold, professional text: “Order flowers for Aspen. Pink peonies. Her favorite.”
When I tried to walk away, my own mother called me a disgrace and threatened to lock my inheritance forever unless I married a sixty-year-old businessman to save her failing estate. At a high-society gala that same night, Aspen intentionally crushed my burned hand in front of the cameras, while Kieran stood by and dismissed me as a “mediocre assistant” who had overstayed her welcome.
I stood in the cold New York rain, drenched in champagne and humiliation, realizing that every sacrifice I made for Kieran was a joke. I was a ghost in a penthouse that was never mine, discarded the moment his “soulmate” returned. To the world, I was just a placeholder whose time had run out.
But Kieran forgot one thing: my father’s multi-million dollar trust fund unlocks the moment I legally marry. I didn’t need love; I needed a signature and a shield. I walked into a discreet law firm and signed a marriage contract with a man I believed was the city’s most notorious, scandal-ridden playboy.
I thought I was marrying a degenerate “beard” to buy my freedom and secure my revenge. I didn’t realize the man who signed that paper wasn’t a playboy at all, but Gaston Collins-the most powerful and dangerous man on Wall Street-and he had no intention of letting our fake marriage stay fake.
The Placeholder Bride’s Secret Billionaire Revenge Chapter 1
She tossed the phone onto the bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Central Park lay below, a sprawling patch of grey and brown in the winter light. It looked bleak.
She needed a husband. Fast. She needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions, someone who needed a transaction just as much as she did.
She walked back to the bed and opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard.
Babe Vincent.
The name had been circulating in the underground whisper networks of the Upper East Side for months. A scandalous playboy. Disowned by half his family. Rumored to be deep in debt to the wrong people, or perhaps trying to hide a sexuality that would get him cut off from the rest of his inheritance. The rumors said he was desperate for a beard. A cover.
She found the contact for a discreet law firm that handled “sensitive reputation management.”
She typed quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Request: Urgent Contract Negotiation. Client: Jocelyn Wolfe.
She hit send.
She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the window. Her hair was messy, her eyes rimmed with red, but her jaw was set.
“No more placeholders,” she whispered to the empty room.
The vibration of the phone against the mahogany nightstand wasn’t a gentle hum. It was a drill, boring into the silence of the guest bedroom at 6:00 AM.
Jocelyn Wolfe squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the noise away, but the buzzing persisted, rattling the glass of water she had left there the night before. She rolled over, the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets tangling around her legs. They felt cold. Everything in Kieran Douglas’s penthouse felt cold, designed for aesthetics rather than comfort.
She reached out, her fingers fumbling until they hit the sleek metal of her smartphone. She squinted against the harsh blue light of the screen.
It wasn’t an alarm. It was a barrage.
Notification after notification stacked up like bricks on the lock screen. Twitter. Instagram. Apple News. And right at the top, the red banner of a Page Six alert.
Tech Mogul Kieran Douglas Debuts Romance with Aspen Schneider.
Jocelyn’s breath hitched in her throat, a sharp, physical pain that radiated from her chest to her stomach. Her thumb hovered over the notification. She didn’t want to open it. She knew what she would see. But her body betrayed her, her thumb tapping the glass before her brain could scream stop.
The photo loaded slowly on the penthouse Wi-Fi.
It was high resolution. Too high. She could see the sweat on Kieran’s brow, the flash of the paparazzi bulbs reflected in his eyes. He was in Paris. He had told her he was in San Francisco for a board meeting.
But it wasn’t Kieran’s face that made Jocelyn’s stomach turn over. It was his hand.
His large, manicured hand was splayed possessively across the waist of a woman in a shimmering silver dress. Aspen Schneider.
Jocelyn zoomed in.
Kieran was smiling. It was a genuine smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t looked at Jocelyn like that in six months. Maybe a year.
She read the caption below the image. “Douglas refers to the heiress as his ‘long-time muse’ and ‘soulmate’ at the Givenchy afterparty.”
Muse. Soulmate.
Jocelyn sat up, the room spinning. She wasn’t the girlfriend. She realized it with a clarity that felt like a slap. She had never been the girlfriend. She was the placeholder. The warm body in the bed when he was lonely. The efficient assistant who managed his calendar and his libido until someone with a better last name came along.
She threw the covers off. The marble floor was freezing against her bare feet.
She paced the room, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold her shattering composure together.
Ding.
A text message banner slid down from the top of the screen.
Kieran: Flight lands at 6. Connecting flight to LA for the server farm crisis. Back in NY Thursday. Have the quarterly reports ready.
No explanation. No apology. No “we need to talk.” Just an order.
He didn’t even know she had seen it. Or worse, he didn’t care. To him, she was an appliance. A coffee maker that also provided sex.
Jocelyn stopped pacing. She stared at the phone, her fingers trembling as she typed a response. You liar. You absolute-
She stopped. She deleted it.
Her thumb hovered over the backspace key until the text box was empty. Anger was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not yet.
The phone rang in her hand, startling her so badly she almost dropped it. The Caller ID flashed a single word: Mother.
Jocelyn closed her eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. She answered.
“Hello.”
“I told you,” Elouise Stein’s voice came through the line, sharp and devoid of warmth. She didn’t say hello. She didn’t ask how Jocelyn was. “I told you he wouldn’t marry a Wolfe without a dowry.”
Jocelyn gripped the phone so tight her knuckles turned white. “I don’t want to hear this right now.”
“You need to hear it,” Elouise snapped. “You’ve wasted two years playing house with that tech boy, and now look at you. Humiliated on the front page of every tabloid in New York.”
“I’m hanging up,” Jocelyn said, her voice hollow.
“The Henderson merger requires a bride,” Elouise pivoted instantly, her tone shifting from mockery to business. “You’re coming home. I’ve arranged a dinner.”
Jocelyn felt bile rise in her throat. Mr. Henderson was sixty-two. He had a laugh that sounded like a wet cough and hands that lingered too long.
“I am not marrying for your business deals,” Jocelyn said. “I am not an asset you can trade to cover your bad investments.”
“Then you get nothing,” Elouise threatened. The venom in her voice was palpable. “The trust fund stays locked. Your father’s will was specific, Jocelyn. You receive control of the assets only upon marriage. Until then, I am the executor. And I say you get nothing.”
Jocelyn went still.
The trust fund. Her father’s legacy. It was the only thing that could get her out of this life. It was enough money to start her own firm, to buy a home, to never have to answer to a Douglas or a Schneider again.
“The clause,” Jocelyn whispered. “It just says marriage. It doesn’t specify to whom.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Elouise scoffed. “You need my approval.”
“No,” Jocelyn said, her mind racing. She recalled the legal document she had memorized years ago. “It says ‘lawful marriage.’ That’s it.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Elouise hissed.
“I will marry,” Jocelyn declared, her voice turning cold, hardening like ice. “But not to Henderson.”
“Jocelyn-“
She hung up.
The Placeholder Bride’s Secret Billionaire Revenge Chapter 2
The waiting room of the law firm smelled of lemon polish and old money.
Jocelyn smoothed the fabric of her skirt for the tenth time. She sat on the edge of a plush leather chair, her spine rigid. The broker had been efficient. Mr. Vincent is looking for a candidate today. Be there at 9.
She checked her watch. 8:58 AM.
The heavy oak door swung open.
Jocelyn stood up instinctively.
A man walked in.
He wasn’t what she expected. The tabloids usually showed Babe Vincent stumbling out of clubs, shirt unbuttoned, a blur of motion and vice.
This man was stillness personified.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that fit him with architectural precision. His dark hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place. He carried an air of authority that made the air in the room feel thinner.
Jocelyn’s breath hitched. He was far more handsome in person. The blurry photos didn’t do justice to the sharp line of his jaw or the intensity of his dark eyes.
The man paused when he saw her. His hand froze on the doorknob for a fraction of a second.
Gaston Collins stared at the woman standing by the chair.
It’s her.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The girl from the gala three years ago. The one in the blue dress who had hidden in the library to read while everyone else drank champagne. He had watched her from the balcony, captivated, but he had never approached. She was with Douglas.
Now, she was here. In a lawyer’s office known for arranging sham marriages.
Jocelyn extended a hand, her fingers trembling slightly. “Mr. Vincent? I’m Jocelyn Wolfe.”
Gaston looked at her hand. Then he looked at her face. She thought he was Babe.
He raised an eyebrow. He could correct her. He could tell her that he was Gaston Collins, the heir to the Collins banking empire, and that he was just here to fire his incompetent estate attorney.
But if he did that, she would apologize and leave.
“Please,” Gaston said. His voice was deep, a smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He took her hand. His grip was warm, firm, and dry. “Let’s skip the formalities.”
He decided in that split second. If being ‘Babe’ got him a conversation, he would be Babe.
They sat at the mahogany table. Jocelyn slid a blue folder across the surface.
“My proposal,” she said. Her voice was steady, but he saw the pulse jumping in her neck. “One year. Strictly platonic. Separation of assets.”
Gaston opened the folder. The header read Marriage Contract.
He fought the urge to smile. She wanted a business deal. He could work with that.
“I need access to my trust fund,” Jocelyn explained, her tone blunt. “And you need… respectability? Or a cover?”
She glanced at him, her eyes searching his face. She was trying to be polite about the rumors. She thought he was gay. She thought he needed a woman to parade around to appease a conservative family.
“A cover,” Gaston agreed, playing along. He leaned back in the chair, studying her. “My family is… demanding.”
“I don’t require love,” Jocelyn added. Her voice wavered on the word love, a crack in her armor. “Just a signature.”
Gaston looked at her. He saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for an impact. Someone had hurt her. Badly.
He uncapped a fountain pen from his pocket. It was a Montblanc, heavy and black.
“Done,” he said.
Jocelyn blinked, stunned. “You haven’t discussed the fee. Or the terms.”
“I don’t need your money, Ms. Wolfe.” Gaston signed the paper with a flourish. He made the signature illegible, a sharp, jagged scrawl that could be anything.
He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “We go to City Hall now.”
Jocelyn stared at him. “Right now?”
“Unless you want to wait?” He challenged her, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I assume time is of the essence.”
Jocelyn grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.”
They exited the building into the biting New York wind. A black town car was idling at the curb.
The driver, a man named Henri who had been with the Collins family for thirty years, stepped out and opened the rear door. He looked at Gaston, then at Jocelyn, confusion flickering across his face.
Gaston shot him a look. A sharp, warning glance. Don’t speak.
He gestured for Jocelyn to enter first.
Jocelyn slid onto the leather seat. The interior smelled of sandalwood and expensive conditioner. It didn’t smell like stale cigarettes or cheap cologne, which is what she imagined Babe Vincent would smell like.
He’s surprisingly gentlemanly for a degenerate playboy, she thought.
Gaston slid in beside her. The door clicked shut, sealing them in.
“City Hall, Henri,” Gaston said.
The car merged smoothly into the chaotic morning traffic of Manhattan, carrying them toward a binding legal union built entirely on a lie.
The Placeholder Bride’s Secret Billionaire Revenge Chapter 3
The winter sun glared off the grey pavement outside the Marriage Bureau, making Jocelyn squint.
It was done.
She held the marriage certificate in her hand like a weapon. The paper was flimsy, but the power it held was immense. It was her key. Her shield. Her eyes scanned the document, but the words blurred. All she could focus on was the official seal and the single, beautiful word at the top: MARRIED. The details, the names… they were just static. The goal was achieved.
“It’s done,” she said, half to herself.
Gaston stood beside her on the concrete steps. He checked his phone, a frown creasing his forehead.
“I have to meet with my lawyers,” he said. “I’ll have a key sent to you.”
Jocelyn looked up at him. “I’m not moving in yet. I have things to settle. I need to pack.”
Gaston nodded. He didn’t push. He seemed to understand that she needed space to dismantle her old life before she could step into this strange new one.
“As you wish,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte black business card. It had no company name, no title. Just a phone number embossed in silver and a monogram in the center: GC.
Jocelyn frowned, taking the card. “GC? For… Babe?”
Gaston didn’t blink. “It’s a family name,” he lied smoothly. “Gaston. ‘Babe’ is a nickname I’m trying to outgrow.”
She accepted this. It made sense. If he was trying to clean up his image, dropping the ridiculous nickname was step one.
“Okay, Gaston.”
He raised a hand, and a yellow cab pulled up instantly, as if summoned by his will alone. He opened the door for her.
“Call me,” he said. It sounded like an order, but his eyes were soft.
Jocelyn nodded and slid into the cab. She watched him through the rear window as the taxi pulled away. He stood there, a dark statue against the bustle of the city, watching her until she turned the corner.
She turned back, her heart racing.
Step one: Done.
Step two: Scorched earth.
She pulled out her phone. She opened Instagram. Block. She opened WhatsApp. Block. She opened iMessage. Block.
She erased Kieran Douglas from her digital existence.
Then, she dialed.
Elouise answered on the second ring.
“Well?” Her mother’s voice was smug. “Are you ready to accept Mr. Henderson’s invitation? He’s quite eager to meet you.”
“I’m married,” Jocelyn announced. Her voice was calm, steady, devoid of the trembling fear she used to feel when talking to her mother.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence on the other end of the line.
Then, “What? To whom?”
“A businessman,” Jocelyn said. “The certificate is filed. Release the trust.”
“You ungrateful brat!” Elouise shrieked. The composure cracked. “Who is he? Did you pick up some waiter? I will have it annulled!”
“Someone with enough assets that I don’t need yours,” Jocelyn bluffed. She hoped Babe Vincent had money left. “I want the deed to the Wolfe Hamptons estate transferred by tomorrow.”
“That house is Aspen’s for the summer!” Elouise protested. “She’s already planning her engagement party there!”
“It was my father’s,” Jocelyn cut her off. “It’s in the trust. Transfer it, or my lawyers will audit the Schneider accounts.”
The line went quiet again. The threat hung heavy in the air. The Schneiders lived lavishly, but everyone knew their liquidity was questionable. An audit would be catastrophic.
“Fine,” Elouise spit the word out like poison. “Take the damn house. But don’t expect a penny more from me.”
“I don’t want your money, Mother. I just want what’s mine.”
Jocelyn hung up.
A rush of adrenaline flooded her veins. It felt like oxygen. For the first time in years, she could breathe.
“Where to, lady?” the cab driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.
“Upper West Side,” Jocelyn said. “The Penthouse on 72nd.”
She had to go back. She had to pack.
When she arrived at Kieran’s building, the doorman, a kind older man named Ralph, tipped his hat. He looked at her with sad eyes. He had probably seen the Page Six article too.
“Good morning, Ms. Wolfe,” he said gently.
“Good morning, Ralph.”
She took the elevator up, the numbers climbing steadily. 10… 20… 30…
She stepped into the penthouse. It was silent. Kieran wasn’t back yet.
She walked to the guest room. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just worked.
She pulled her suitcases from the closet. She packed her clothes, her books, her expensive skincare. She stripped the bed sheets she had bought with her own money. It was petty, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving him anything.
She walked to the kitchen. She placed her key on the marble counter, right next to a half-empty coffee mug Kieran had left days ago. Mold was starting to grow on the surface of the liquid.
She looked at her left hand. It was bare.
She realized she had forgotten to get a ring.
“Fake husband, fake marriage,” she muttered to herself.
She dragged her suitcases to the elevator. The wheels rumbled loudly on the floor, a sound of finality.