The Billionaire's Wife: A Living Hell

Blood soaked through the pristine silk of the wedding gown, spreading like a red rose wilting in snow.

The scene replayed in Victoria Windsor’s mind on an endless loop, each time tearing at her chest with a pain so sharp it felt like her soul was being ripped apart.

The abandoned warehouse stank of rust and blood. The metallic tang clawed at the back of her throat. She could still hear the kidnapper’s crude ultimatum—two choices—and then Anne moved.

The knife meant for Victoria drove straight into Anne’s chest.

“Promise me…” Anne’s hands, slick and hot with blood, clamped around Victoria’s wrist. Her eyes burned with feverish determination. “Marry Edward… take my place… bring the Windsor family back…”

Victoria held her sister’s cooling body, drowning in grief and guilt.

“The most important thing is that you find happiness.” Anne’s final whisper dissolved into the air, leaving only the weight of that last command: Marry Edward. Restore the family.

It became Victoria’s curse.

Rain in Asteria City was always cold.

Black umbrellas pressed together like a storm cloud over Saint Aurelius Cathedral, stifling the air until it was impossible to breathe.

It was Anne’s funeral.

Victoria stood before the gravestone in mourning black, her pale face—so like Anne’s—drained of all color. She carried no umbrella. Rain slid down strands of her golden hair, indistinguishable from the tears she refused to shed.

Around her, the air buzzed with false sympathy and whispered gossip.

“Such a tragedy… Anne Windsor gone.”

“I heard Victoria was there too. Why wasn’t it her?”

“Shh. Look at Mr. Russell’s face.”

Edward Russell stood at the front, his tailored black suit soaked through, rain tracing sharp lines down his tall frame. His eyes, fixed on Anne’s photograph, were bloodshot from sleepless nights. The handsome features that once drew admiration were shadowed now, his entire presence radiating a violent, unapproachable grief.

He turned. His gaze locked onto Victoria.

It was a gaze of ice—hard, cold, merciless. No warmth. Only exhaustion, contempt, and the pain he fought to bury. Seeing her face, so like Anne’s, was a knife twisting in his chest—a reminder of that day’s catastrophe.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Edward began, his voice low and rough. “Anne was the love of my life. Her death took all my hope with it. And since the one she could not let go of was her sister…”

He paused, inhaling as if bracing himself for a decision that cost him dearly.

“I will honor Anne’s wish. As her brother-in-law, I will take care of Victoria until she marries.”

The crowd murmured approval at the heir’s sense of duty.

“I don’t accept that.”

The voice cut through the rain like a blade—cool, steady, terrifyingly calm.

Victoria lifted her head.

Her eyes were hollow, stripped of all light. No fear. No sorrow. Only an unsettling stillness.

Edward’s brows drew together. “Victoria, this is not the time to be stubborn.”

“I don’t want you as my brother-in-law.” She stepped forward, heels sinking into the mud, dirty water splashing against her ankles. She met his storm-dark eyes without flinching, her mind filled with the memory of Anne’s blood-slicked hand clutching hers—the desperate plea that refused to die.

It had to be done. Even if it meant going to hell.

Her lips moved, each word sharp and deliberate, cutting through the roar of rain.

“Edward. I want you to marry me.”

The sentence detonated like a bomb in the funeral’s suffocating air.

Gasps broke out. Disbelief rippled through the mourners. At Anne’s funeral—before her gravestone—her sister had just demanded marriage from the man who should have been her brother-in-law.

Edward stared at her, momentarily stunned. Looking at that face, so uncannily like the one he loved, filled him with a disgust so deep it made his skin crawl.

The shock lasted only a heartbeat. Then rage surged in to consume him.

“What did you just say?” His voice dropped to something low and dangerous. Veins stood out at his temple.

“I said I want you to marry me.” Victoria repeated, her nails digging into her palm until they broke the skin—pain anchoring her to clarity. “It’s Anne’s—”

“Shut up!”

Edward’s roar cracked through the air. He closed the distance in two strides, his hand clamping around her wrist with a force that felt like it could crush bone.

“Victoria Windsor, have you no shame?”

He dragged her toward the gravestone, forcing her to face Anne’s photograph.

“She’s watching from here! She just left this world, and you’re already desperate to climb into my bed?”

His eyes blazed red, fury threatening to burn her to ash. “She gave her life for you—and you dare covet the man she loved?”

The whispers swelled into sharp-edged judgment.

“My God, that’s vile.”

“Never thought Victoria was that kind of woman.”

“She’d throw away every shred of decency just to cling to the Russell name. Disgusting.”

Each word was a blade, cutting into Victoria’s ears, her skin, her heart.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She let his contempt wash over her, her body swaying in the wind and rain—but refusing to fall.

“Marry me.”

The words came again. Relentless. Mechanical. As if she were a broken record.

Once, she had been the brightest rose in jewelry design—proud, brilliant, untouchable. Now she stood in the storm, soaked and broken, repeating with raw, desperate finality:

“Edward. You must marry me.”