The Billionaire's Perfect, Plastic Wife

For five years, I played the part of the perfect wife to Knox Steele, heir to a media empire. My life was a curated masterpiece, a reward for surviving the car accident his stepsister, Gemma, caused-an accident that was meant to kill me.

At a charity gala, I saw her. Gemma, supposed to be locked away in rehab, was glowing. She was holding the hand of a small boy. And next to her, laughing as the boy tugged on his jacket, was my husband.

Hiding in the shadows, I heard the boy call Knox "Daddy." I heard them planning his birthday party for the next day at our lake house-a "family-only" trip I was, as always, excluded from.

Then I heard Gemma' s voice, laced with poison. "What about Adelaide? Will she be a problem?"

"Don't worry about her," Knox said, his tone dismissive. "I'll tell her it's a business retreat. She'll stay home like a good little wife. Poor thing."

My entire five-year marriage was a performance. A carefully constructed cage to keep me quiet while they lived their real life right under my nose. I wasn't family. I was the cover story.

But the final betrayal was discovering their plan to drug my morning coffee, to keep me sedated and "unwell" so I wouldn't interfere with their celebration. They weren't just lying to me; they were going to incapacitate me.

That's when the woman he married died. I signed the divorce papers, walking away from billions. I wanted nothing from them but their ruin. And as I watched them cut the birthday cake at the lake house, I smiled. My gift was on its way.