the Billionare's unwanted wife

It was the kind of call Chloe had come to expect, yet dreaded all the same. The screen of her phone glowed with Noah’s name, and the clock beside it read 11:00 PM. A familiar weariness settled deep in her bones. She knew, even before answering, that this was about Liam.

“Chloe? Sorry to call so late,” Noah’s voice was strained, thick with exhaustion and apology. “It’s Liam. He’s… well, he’s done it again.”

Chloe closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of her apartment window. Down below, the streetlights cast long, lonely shadows. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice flat. There was no need to ask what ‘it’ was.

“Downstairs. In front of your building. I can’t get him into my car, and he won’t tell me his address. He just keeps mumbling your name.”

A sigh escaped her lips, a small, defeated sound. “Okay. I’m coming down.”

The scene was exactly as she’d pictured. Liam, her childhood friend, was a crumpled heap on the pavement next to Noah’s car, his handsome face slack in a drunken stupor. The scent of whiskey hung heavy in the cool night air. Noah offered her a helpless shrug.

“He and Sophia had another fight,” he explained. “Thanks, Chloe. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Noah,” she said quietly, already moving to hoist Liam’s dead weight. It was a practiced motion, one she knew too well. She slung one of his arms over her shoulder, the familiar burden of his body a painful echo of their entire history. Together, they maneuvered him into the building and up the elevator, the silence between them filled only by Liam’s incoherent muttering.

After Noah left, Chloe managed to drag Liam to her bedroom and deposit him onto her bed. He was a mess of tangled limbs and designer clothes that reeked of alcohol and regret. She removed his shoes, covered him with a blanket, and stood back, watching him. For a moment, she allowed herself to trace the lines of his face—the strong jaw, the long lashes resting against his cheek. For ten years, this man had owned her heart, and for ten years, he had never truly seen it.

She turned to leave, her own exhaustion finally claiming her. She would take the couch. It was the usual arrangement.

But as she reached the door, a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. It was surprisingly strong. “Chloe,” he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly sound that vibrated straight through her.

She froze. “Liam, you’re drunk. Go back to sleep.”

He pulled her, a gentle but insistent tug, until she stumbled back toward the bed. He was on his side now, his eyes half-open, clouded with alcohol but fixed on her with a raw, desperate intensity. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “Stay.”

Her heart began to pound, a frantic, stupid drum against her ribs. This was the danger zone, the blurry line they crossed only when he was broken and she was weak. “I can’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He ignored her, his free hand moving to her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her loose t-shirt to find the bare skin of her back. His touch was electric, a searing brand against her flesh. “I want you,” he murmured, his face buried in the curve of her neck. “God, Chloe, I always want you.”

The protest died in her throat. Every rational thought, every ounce of self-preservation she had, evaporated under the heat of his touch and the intoxicating lie of his words. This was her curse: her inability to say no to him. His lips found hers, clumsy and demanding at first, then deepening as her resistance crumbled. She kissed him back, a decade of repressed longing pouring into the act.

Her shirt was gone, then his. Skin met skin, and the world narrowed to the space between them on her bed. It was a frantic, desperate collision, fueled by his drunken despair and her hopeless love. In that moment, with his body moving over hers, she could almost pretend that he meant it. She could almost believe that he was hers.

***

The next morning, Chloe woke to an empty bed. The space beside her was cool to the touch, the only evidence of Liam’s presence a faint indentation on the pillow and the lingering scent of his cologne. A familiar ache, sharp and hollow, settled in her chest.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen, her body sore and her mind shrouded in a fuzzy haze. But on the small dining table, a plate of toast and a freshly brewed cup of coffee were waiting for her. Next to it was a small, folded note.

Her breath hitched. She picked it up, her fingers trembling slightly.

Thanks for last night. You’re the best. Love you. - L

Love you. The two words swam before her eyes, a cruel mirage in her desert of a heart. It was a casual, thoughtless phrase he threw around like confetti, but every time, a foolish part of her clutched it like a lifeline. A small, tentative smile touched her lips. Maybe this time was different. Maybe last night meant something more.

She was just taking a bite of the cold toast when her phone rang. It was him. Her heart leaped into her throat.

“Hey,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Chlo! Morning,” Liam’s voice was bright, cheerful, and utterly devoid of the previous night’s desperation. It was the voice he used when everything in his world was right again. Chloe’s stomach clenched.

“You sound happy,” she said, the words tasting like ash.

“I am! I wanted to tell you—Sophia and I talked it out. We’re good. Better than good, actually. We’re back together.”

The toast turned to cardboard in her mouth. The room tilted. He was talking about Sophia. After a night in her bed, the first person he celebrated with was the woman he fought with.

“Oh,” she managed. It was the only sound she could make.

“Yeah. It was a stupid fight. But it’s all sorted now,” he continued, oblivious. “Hey, listen, thanks again for last night. For listening. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re seriously the best friend a guy could ask for.”

Best friend.

The words slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. Not a lover. Not the woman he’d whispered “I want you” to just hours before. A convenience. A comfort. A stupid, foolish best friend who opened her door and her legs whenever his real relationship hit a bump.

“Right,” she said, her voice a reedy thread. “Best friend.”

“Exactly! Anyway, I gotta run. Sophia’s waiting. Talk to you later, Chlo!”

The line went dead.

Chloe stood frozen in her small kitchen, the note with its meaningless “Love you” still clutched in her hand. The morning sun streamed through the window, bright and mocking. She looked at the breakfast he’d made—a gesture not of love, but of guilt, of payment for services rendered.

The pain was a sharp, physical thing, a shard of ice piercing her heart. She wasn't his solace. She was just the nearest port in his storm. A pitiful substitute. Nothing more.