Married to the Secret Billionaire

I bite my lower lip. “Hmm… I might have a few ideas.” After all, years of remaining a virgin while my ex forced me to wait for him means I had to get pretty familiar with some personal pleasure items. But I’ve never used toys with a partner before. And some of the ones, well… they’re not really single user only.

“That’s my good girl.” Ankor winks and blows me one last kiss before he heads off.

I watch him go, heart in my throat, before I roll out of bed and stretch, then climb up to the roof for my morning swim. The laps help to distract me, at least for a little while. Before long, though, I’ve finished, then showered and toweled off, and then I’m lounging in the huge, empty living room, the fireplace going beside me, all too aware of every single sound in the house. The distant ping and whir of the elevator, several floors below, is enough to make me startle and yelp.

I need to do something. Something to distract myself.

Remembering Ankor’s mention of toys, I grab the laptop he gave me. It’s one of his old ones, of which he apparently has an entire stash. He’s one of those people who always has the latest version of every gadget. I start it up and pull up YouTube. I figure I can search for some ideas, and text them to Ankor.

In my head, I’m already composing naughty, flirty text messages, when I pause on the homepage, staring at the most recent hit. He must not have cleared the old browser history on this computer, because it knew to load up any websites related to him on YouTube. And the first one that catches my eye is titled “Marco Helmtree: Billionaire Bastard.”

The poster is someone named LilyLoves, who has millions upon millions of followers.

I shouldn’t. But curiosity gets the better of me. After all, this is up on the internet for anybody to find. I’m sure it’s all BS, but I can’t help clicking anyway.

Immediately, a pretty young woman with dark hair fills the screen. She’s sitting at the edge of an infinity pool overlooking a beach, which you’d think would make her happy. But she’s scowling at the screen, like whoever is filming this just kicked a puppy in front of her.

“Lovers, I have some tragic news for you today,” the girl—Lily, I guess? —starts out, still scowling. “As some of you long-time followers probably know, I am—or should I say was—about to celebrate my one year anniversary with my boyfriend, Marco Helmtree. Until this bitch showed up.”

There’s a cutaway to a photo I recognize all too well.

Oh no. It can’t be.

It’s the photo of Ankor and me at the bonfire. The one that blew his cover and forced us both out of hiding from our self-imposed exiles.

“‘Who the hell is that?’ you ask? Well, I’d like to know that too. Turns out my boyfriend’s new side piece is a tough girl to find. No social media presence, which, can I just say, I do not trust anybody who doesn’t at least have an Instagram?”

My stomach churns.

“All I’ve managed to get so far is her name, and only half of it at that. But—” And here, Lily stared directly into the camera, head-on. “Sinclair Whoever You Are. If you’re watching this? I want you to know something. Marco was mine before he ever laid eyes or hands on you. And he’ll be mine again long after he’s tossed you away like all his other cheap flings. As for you, Marco? Come back to where you belong, before I run out of second chances to give you.”

The video has thousands upon thousands of likes. And a similar number of comments. People all writing to say how beautiful Lily is—and she is, that’s true—or how sorry they are she’s going through this.

And then worse comments. Comments from people talking about me. Calling me a homewrecker, an ugly skank, a whore. Worse.

I close the window before I can read anymore. I realize my hands are shaking, and my breath is hitching. What the actual fuck?

That’s fake. It has to be. I know Ankor. And I know what he’s told me about his exes, too. He never mentioned any of them by name, but I have enough experience with my own to recognize an abusive personality when I see one. Physical or emotional, abusers have a whole arsenal of manipulative tricks, and I’ve seen them all. That girl isn’t his girlfriend. No way am I buying that for a heartbeat.

But the way she showed my photo, and mentioned my name… And the things her followers were saying in those comments, the suggestions for what I ought to do to myself…

My eyes sting with unshed tears. Is this what it’s like to be Marco all the time? No wonder he changed his name and moved to an island in the middle of an ocean. I can’t blame him for running from that kind of vitriol.