Chapter 2: My Gorgeous Billionaire Husband
Nora's POV
Life can turn to absolute shit in a fucking heartbeat. Mine did—twice—in one goddamn day. First, I discovered my boyfriend of three years, Sam Norton, was secretly engaged to some uppity high-society bitch. Then, my so-called parents dropped a fucking nuke: they weren’t even my real family. They’d sold me off to the Claflin family like I was a cheap piece of ass.
I collapsed on my bedroom floor, back against the bed, staring into the abyss. I’d always wondered why my parents didn’t give a rat’s ass about me. Now it made sense—I wasn’t theirs to begin with.
My mind drifted to that night at Vibe. That stranger in the dark. His rough hands gripping my hips, his hungry mouth devouring me, making me lose my fucking mind… I squeezed my eyes shut. Jesus, I’m pathetic. Couldn’t even figure out who I was fucking. And Sam—perfect fucking Sam—had been planning his fairy-tale wedding while playing me like a cheap whore.
“Fuck them all,” I growled to the empty room.
I laughed until tears streamed down my face, the sound hollow as hell, bouncing off the walls.
But maybe this is my fucking escape. The thought slammed into me, sharp and cold, clearing the fog in my head.
At the Claflin Estate, I’d have resources. Money. A clean slate away from the assholes who never wanted me and the bastard who fucked me over. Alexander Claflin wouldn’t need shit from me—he couldn’t. And when he eventually kicked the bucket (fuck, that sounded cold), I’d be set for life.
It was ruthless as hell, but nobody in this twisted game was playing by any goddamn moral code.
I wiped my tears, squared my shoulders, and marched downstairs to face my “parents.”
They were in the living room, my mother—Mable—drumming her fingers on her handbag like she couldn’t wait to get this over with. Both looked up, shocked, as I stormed in.
“I want the truth,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Where did I come from? Who are my real parents?”
Mable exchanged a glance with my father, then sighed. “We don’t know, Nora. You were two when we adopted you. The agency gave us jack shit.”
“Then why adopt if you didn’t want a kid?” The question had been burning a hole in me for days.
“Our parents wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” my father muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Greg Jr. this, Mable’s baby that. It was fucking relentless.”
“You were so damn cute back then,” Mable added, her smile fake as hell. “Those big brown eyes, those chubby cheeks.”
“Cute,” I spat, my tone flat as a fucking board.
“But who cares? Kids are a goddamn burden,” she waved dismissively.
My father leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Now, with the Claflins’ offer, we all win. We get financial security for life, and you’ll be married to the richest man downtown.”
“A man in a coma,” I shot back.
“A man who might wake up,” Mable corrected, her voice dripping with fake hope. “And even if he doesn’t, you’re set, Nora. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Independence?”
I nearly laughed at the fucking irony. They’d never given a shit about what I wanted.
I stared at these strangers who’d raised me, these fuckers who saw me as nothing but a paycheck, and made my choice.
“I’ll do it,” I said, voice low and hard. “I’ll marry Alexander Claflin.”
The relief on their faces was fucking disgusting. My father grabbed his phone, and Mable actually hugged me, her perfume making me want to puke.
“You won’t regret this, darling,” she whispered. “This is the best fucking thing for all of us.”
The Claflin Estate made our house look like a goddamn shack. Sprawling over at least ten acres, the mansion loomed against the twilight sky like some creepy-ass gothic nightmare.
Just me, in a plain white dress, being led through hallways by a stone-faced housekeeper.
“Mr. Claflin’s room,” she barked, opening a heavy oak door. “The family will check on you later.”
The door shut with a click that sounded like a fucking prison lock.
Alexander’s room wasn’t what I expected—not a sterile hospital vibe, but a goddamn luxury suite. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, with a figure lying motionless under crisp white sheets.
I crept closer, heart pounding. This was my husband now. A man I’d never spoken to, never dated, never even met while he was conscious.
He wasn’t what I pictured. The media painted him as a withered husk, but the man in front of me was… fucking gorgeous. Strong jaw, perfect features, thick dark hair. He looked like a goddamn Greek god taking a nap, not some poor bastard poisoned into a coma.
I reached out, brushing his hand. A jolt of something—fucking familiarity—shot through me.
Those hands on my waist, gripping hard as he fucked me senseless…
I yanked my hand back, heart racing. No. Fucking impossible. My mind was screwing with me, connecting dots that didn’t exist because I was stressed and hadn’t slept in days.
“This is fucking insane,” I whispered, leaning closer to study his face. “Who the hell would want to hurt you? And why am I really here?”
His skin was warm, his breathing steady. I couldn’t help but wonder what color those closed eyes were, what his voice sounded like, if he was even thinking at all.
“Who’d want to fuck you over like this?” I murmured, scanning his features. “And why this fucked-up marriage?”
“I can answer that,” a voice drawled from the doorway.
I spun around to see a man watching me. Tall, well-dressed, with features that mirrored Alexander’s but lacked their perfection. His smile made my fucking skin crawl.
“Who are you?” I snapped.
His eyes raked over me like I was a piece of meat. “Fucking my nephew’s new wife while he watches. That’s a goddamn thrill, don’t you think?”
I backed up as he stepped into the room, shutting the door with a predatory grin. “So, you must be Robert.”
“You’re even hotter up close. Saw you when you rolled in.” He stalked closer, intent clear in his sleazy fucking gaze. “If being married to a vegetable doesn’t get you off, I’m here. I can give you what he can’t—attention, conversation, a real hard fuck.”
“Get the fuck out,” I hissed, my back hitting the wall.
He laughed, low and dirty. “Don’t play hard to get. We both know why you’re here.” His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. “For money. And I’ve got plenty to keep that pretty mouth busy.”
I struggled as he shoved me against the wall, his other hand yanking at my dress, tearing the fabric as I fought. “Stop it, you fucking bastard! Let me go!”
“Playing coy? I fucking love that,” he growled, forcing his mouth toward mine, his breath hot and rancid.
“Get. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. My. Wife.”
The voice—low, commanding, and unmistakably awake—froze us both.