The Billionaire's Uninvited Wedding

"If you catch me in a scandal, make sure you take it to my wife.

She loves cleaning up my messes." Donovan Sinclair smirked at the paparazzi, his latest fling clinging to his arm. "A nobody who married into money.

She would rather die than sign divorce papers." None of them remembered the way Donovan used to look at me when we first married, lowering his aristocratic chin to introduce me to the vipers. "This is my wife.

She is young, so go easy on her." Everyone assumes I will just write another check to the tabloids, bury this week's affair, and go back to playing the perfectly happy billionaire's wife.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the patriarch's study. "It has been three years.

It is time you let me go." Chapter 1 There is an unwritten rule among Manhattan's gossip columns.

If a paparazzi is falling behind on their monthly quota, all they have to do is stake out the CEO of Sinclair Group.

Donovan swaps out his lovers like clockwork every month, parading them around so openly that a blind man could get the shot. Boys will be boys, they say.

A little scandal is par for the course. But his wife? She has to maintain the illusion. She has to keep the family name spotless.

Catch her husband redhanded, name your price, and she will foot the bill without batting an eye. But the game is always evolving.

When the rookie stringer for a cheap tabloid brought the footage straight to Donovan, only to be redirected to me, I had just stepped out of the elevator into our penthouse.

The voice on the phone kept droning on, trying to sound hardened but painfully amateurish as he threw out his ridiculous demand. "Mrs. Sinclair, it is just two million.

That is the price of a single handbag for you. "Two million to buy your husband's dignity. It is a bargain.

Call me back on this number when you have made up your mind." The kid was not very bright.

It was his first time tailing him, and by his second attempt, he was brazenly knocking on Donovan's car window. Donovan's cars are usually impossible to track.

He rotates through a garage of hundreds, yet he had been driving the same Aston Martin all week.

In the video the paparazzo sent, the tinted window rolled down to reveal a girl in a scandalously tight dress pouting in the passenger seat.

Last month, when the photos hit my inbox, that exact seat was occupied by a rising Hollywood starlet.

On screen, Donovan pulled off his sunglasses, exposing that devastatingly perfect face. He crooked a finger at the camera lens.

As the kid stepped closer, Donovan coaxed him with a lazy, melodic drawl. "Newbie? You are doing it wrong. "You do not come to me after you get the shot. I do not pay out.

You do not have my wife's number?" He snatched a pen, scribbled a string of digits on a napkin, and shoved it against the reporter's chest.

Then, he turned to the woman beside him and clicked his tongue. "Get out." She leaned in, whining playfully. "Mr. Sinclair, you promised me three days.

It has barely been a few hours." Donovan tossed a black card into her lap and hit the unlock button. "Barely a few hours and you already got us caught.

Do you want to walk, or do you want me to throw you out? Get out." I tapped the screen, cutting the video off, and sat at the dining table with terrifying calm.

The staff quietly laid out a multicourse dinner before me, the porcelain clinking softly against the polished wood. The grand clock struck eight.

I looked up at the vintage piece Donovan brought from France seven years ago, its pendulum swinging with a tired rhythm.

I was seventeen when I got accepted into Columbia University, and eighteen the year Donovan walked into my life.

Back then, aside from that breathtaking face, everything about him was beautifully understated.

Chapter 2 He already knew the material backward and forward, yet he played the bumbling fool just to trap me into tutoring him. Within half a month, word got around fast.

People pulled me aside, whispering that he was not just another pretty face on campus. He was the heir to the Sinclair empire. His father was currently running for the Senate.

Donovan eventually left Columbia behind. He ignored all logic, driving endlessly between the campus and his sleek Midtown office just to see me.

Through those years, we fought, we tangled, and we fell in love. My walls went up, and he tore them right back down.

At twentyfive, after surviving every trial thrown our way, I married Donovan Sinclair. The papers from that wedding of the century still exist in the archives. Except for one.

A trashy tabloid ran a headline that eclipsed the major outlets, prioritizing clickbait over basic respect. Donovan saw it the morning after our wedding. He did not say a word.

He just set his water glass down, crushing the headline under the heavy crystal base. I only found out later that it was the last issue that paper ever printed.

Piece by piece, memory by memory, the realization chokes me. We used to love each other with a terrifying, allconsuming fire.

Now, we are reduced to this antique clock in the foyer. The pendulum swings, but all the power is gone.

My chest tightens, a dull, heavy ache settling right behind my ribs, making it hard to draw a full breath. In the dead silence of the penthouse, the private elevator dinged.

When the display lit up for the third floor, the polished steel doors slid open. Donovan stepped out, his suit jacket slung carelessly over his forearm.

The harsh overhead lighting did absolutely nothing to diminish the sharp, lethal cut of his jawline. I glanced at him. I looked back down at my plate, focusing on the porcelain.

He stepped up directly behind my chair. He planted his hands flat on the mahogany table on either side of me, caging me in.

His voice was a slow, careless drawl right by my ear. "Good evening, Mrs. Sinclair.

Let us see… how much is my scandal worth this time?" He tapped the screen of my phone on the table, opening the messages. "Two million? These reporters are losing their ambition.

They are making me look cheap." I set my silverware down, locked my spine straight against his chest, and ignored his bait. "I am vetoing Peyton's application for Head of PR." The effect was instantaneous.

The second her name hung in the air, Donovan pushed off the table. The suffocating, magnetic heat of him vanished. He walked around and dropped into the chair opposite me.

He draped his arms over the backrest, his gaze drifting out toward the glittering New York skyline. "Her affairs are none of your concern." He turned his head slowly, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Or… do you just have a problem with her?" I stared dead into his eyes, searching for a flicker of something familiar.

There was nothing left. The public thinks Donovan has been spiraling through endless flings for two years. No one realizes every single woman is just a smokescreen for Peyton.

Two years ago, he shipped her off to Europe for a vanity degree. Now, he wants to parachute her straight into the executive suite. It has nothing to do with jealousy.

It is pure, cold reality. Sinclair Group's hiring standards are ruthless. We do not look at resumes outside the Ivy League or top global institutions.

Peyton has a high school diploma. She was working the perfume counter at Macy's when she was eighteen. Her European school is a known diploma mill.

There is no justifiable loophole for her. My voice was entirely devoid of warmth. "This is business. I do not mix corporate decisions with personal feelings." Donovan said nothing.

The heavy silence stretched. Then, a voice note chimed loudly from his phone. Chapter 3 The voice bleeding from the speaker was sickly sweet, dripping with forced innocence. "Mr.

Sinclair, I think I left my panties in your car. When is a good time for me to come grab them?" The volume seemed deliberately cranked up.

The words echoed in the tense, dead air between us. Donovan held my steady gaze.

He lifted the phone to his lips, his voice a lazy drawl. "Wrong number, sweetheart." I stared at his cold, unfeeling expression.

I tried to remember what he looked like when he used to love me. In the beginning, Donovan actually used to apologize. He had once ordered an obscenely expensive gift for Peyton.

It had accidentally taken the allocation spot for a limitededition piece I had personally reserved. Manhattan's elite circles are microscopic.

It only takes a single loose thread to unravel a monumental lie. Donovan had raced back to the penthouse.

He physically cornered me, surrendering his phone, his black cards, and every password he owned to ground my spiraling panic. "She helped me out with a minor issue.

Owen picked the gift out. I will teach him a lesson later." He barely had to explain. I believed him because I had no logical reason not to. But then came that rainy afternoon.

Peyton had somehow found out about our explosive fight. She showed up at the estate gates, shivering violently in the downpour. "Mrs.

Sinclair, there is truly nothing going on between Mr. Sinclair and me. You have to believe us." The sheer desperation of the performance was insulting.

A glaring, neon red flag masking the guilt underneath. Anger has a way of burning away all rationality.

I was too blind with rage to notice Donovan standing by the floortoceiling windows. I completely missed the flash of raw, visceral heartache in his eyes as he looked down at her.

When a man feels true heartache for a woman, it is the start of an epic romance. When a third person is standing right there in the room, it is just a loaded gun.

But that was a long time ago. The days that nearly cracked my ribs open are already in the rearview mirror. Today is November 27th.

Three days left until my threeyear exit agreement with the patriarch expires. I looked at Donovan, parting my lips to speak. His phone buzzed, the sudden vibration cutting me off.

The muffled voice bled through the receiver, but I would recognize Peyton's voice anywhere. "The power went out in my apartment. It is pitch black. I am scared." "Wait there.

I am coming." Donovan stood up immediately. He cast a single, fleeting glance at me. I swallowed the words burning on my tongue, sealing my lips shut.

He walked out the door without looking back. After Donovan left, I grabbed my keys and drove out to the Sinclair family estate.

The interior was a suffocating mix of European antiques and sterile modern art. I walked through the grand foyer.

Patricia was lounging on the velvet sofa in the parlor, a maid carefully massaging her shoulders.

At the sound of my heels, she turned her head, gave me a single dismissive glance, and closed her eyes again. I did not bother wasting my breath on her.

I walked straight past the parlor and headed up the sweeping staircase to the secondfloor study. "Grandfather." I weighed my words carefully as I stepped inside. "The three years are up.

I want to leave the Sinclair family." Three years ago, I finally found out the truth.

Donovan had publicly exiled Peyton, but in reality, he had quietly funded her lavish lifestyle in London.

While I was lying in a hospital bed, staring at the sterile ceiling, his private jet was logging flight hours between New York and the UK.

That was the moment my lungs forgot how to work. My chest had simply stopped trying to draw air, a cold numbness settling deep into my marrow. I went to the patriarch back then.

The Sinclair empire was in the middle of a vicious internal power struggle. He demanded I stay for three more years to maintain the facade.

If Donovan had not changed his ways by the end of it, he would personally sign off on my exit. The heavy leather executive chair swiveled.

The patriarch opened his eyes, pinning me with a calculating stare. "I assumed three years would give you enough time to get used to it.

Why do you still want to leave?" When I remained silent, he let out a heavy sigh. "You should have expected this the day you married into this family. Look at Patricia.

Her temper was twice as fiery as yours when she was your age." "But at the end of the day, she gripped the title of Mrs. Sinclair until her knuckles bled.

All those illegitimate children could not make a single wave. Donovan, the son she birthed, is still the sole heir to this empire.

So tell me, Vivienne, are you truly willing to surrender your crown to a cheap homewrecker?" Chapter 4 Patricia is Donovan's mother.

The woman who now spends her days meditating and clutching rosary beads possessed a terrifying ruthlessness in her youth. "Do you know what she relied on?" "What?" "She relied on my absolute approval.

As long as I say so, your position as Mrs. Sinclair is untouchable.

With my backing, none of those other women can ever pose a threat to you." The patriarch leaned forward, the leather of his chair groaning. "Besides, I am not talking to you about feelings.

I am talking about a transaction. "You have been exceptional these past few years.

You have held up the company and the Sinclair family flawlessly." "It would cost us far too much time and resources to groom a replacement.

You are smart enough to calculate whether walking away is truly worth it." If this were purely a business deal, it would be the most lucrative contract of my life.

I poured him a fresh cup of Earl Grey. "You know perfectly well that if this were not about feelings, I never would have sat in this chair to begin with." I used to think that as long as I gripped the title of the legal wife, the outside noise could never breach the Sinclair estate.

But I did not marry Donovan to become Mrs. Sinclair. I became Mrs. Sinclair because I married Donovan. Back then, I used to push him away.

I told him he was a prisoner to his family's legacy, that he had no right dragging me into his mess.

Donovan would just scowl, his jaw ticking with irritation. "Who says I am a prisoner?

I have a million ways to marry you. "You take your eyes off me for one second and threaten to marry someone else. Do you think I am entirely useless?" I never believed him.

What brilliant plan could possibly bypass the iron gates of his family's vetting process? He never brought it up again.

Instead, he systematically clawed his way to the top of Sinclair Group, ruthlessly embedding himself into the core of the empire.

After graduation, I secured a spot at the firm, starting from the very bottom. By day, I survived the grueling corporate grinder.

By night, Donovan privately tutored me in his penthouse, accelerating my rise through the ranks.

When the topic of our marriage finally resurfaced, he sat at the head of the Sinclair boardroom. Not a single executive dared to breathe a word of dissent.

But he still respected the patriarch. The very next day, he orchestrated a stunt to force the old man's hand. "That arrogant brat. Did he really think my eyes were failing me?

That my mind was gone? "He dragged in some pretty boy from an entertainment agency.

Marched right in, holding his hand, threatening to elope with him at City Hall. "He thought he could scare me.

I turned a blind eye and gave you two my blessing, and yet you are still not satisfied." "It has barely been a few years, and you are already demanding a divorce.

Let me make this perfectly clear. Once you walk out of the Sinclair family, I will never let you step foot back inside.

Think very carefully before you make your final move." I lowered my gaze.

The chaotic, suffocating reel of our sevenyear marriage flashed behind my eyelids. "I have already waited three years to walk out that door." He waved a dismissive, aged hand. "Tie up your loose ends at the company.

Someone will contact you when it is time." When I descended the sweeping staircase, Donovan's mother was still anchored to the velvet sofa.

I reached the grand mahogany doors, paused, and turned back. "I will not be around to send my regards in the future.

I wish you good health, Patricia." Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked out into the biting night air. The parlor lights were deliberately dim.

Patricia sat completely swallowed by the shadows, her chin lifting to stare at the empty doorway.

Every last drop of light in the cavernous room seemed to be dragged out by my retreating silhouette.

She watched until her vision blurred, hallucinating the ghost of her own youth walking out those exact same doors.

Dorothy leaned down, her voice a quiet murmur against Patricia's ear. "Madam, it is late. It is time to rest." The parlor sank deeper into the gloom.

Patricia finally pulled her gaze back from the void. "Let us go." Once inside the sanctuary of my car, the reality of tying up loose ends settled over me.

I fired off a text, ordering the paparazzi to pick up their hushmoney check first thing in the morning. I bought out every single trace of Donovan's sordid affairs for the day.

The next time Donovan's name flashed across my screen was days later. Chapter 5 After Peyton returned from Europe, Donovan had noticeably dialed back his public indiscretions.

Remembering my agreement with the patriarch, I instructed my driver to detour and pick Donovan up. The double doors to the private lounge were wide open when I arrived.

Inside, a highstakes poker game was in full swing, and Peyton was sitting right at the table. She had just scooped a massive pot.

The man sitting across from her laughed, tossing his cards. "The Mrs. is on a winning streak tonight. Sweeping the board.

I am about to bet my shirt at this rate, so have some mercy on us." Peyton offered a coy, sugary smile, parting her lips to reply.

Donovan casually dragged his gaze up and spotted me standing in the doorway.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his devastating face. "The one standing in the doorway is the actual Mrs. Sinclair.

With eyesight that pathetic, no wonder you are losing your shirt." The man froze. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his heavy chair back in sheer panic. "MMrs.

Sinclair…" Peyton's delicate face instantly drained of all color. Watching the pathetic scene unfold, I knew exactly what Donovan was doing.

He always orchestrated these little humiliations, pushing me to my breaking point so I would be the one to file for divorce and give up my seat.

Yet, he absolutely refused to be the one to sign the papers. His twisted logic was maddeningly simple. "She is young and clueless.

She is a fun distraction, but no one in their right mind would marry her. For a legitimate wife, having you is enough." I glanced at the people in the room.

I instructed the driver standing behind me to stay and escort Donovan home later. Then, I gave a perfectly measured, polite nod to the room and turned on my heel.

I barely made it out to the hallway before Peyton blocked my path. The eighteenyearold girl from two years ago was now twenty, green yet vibrant.

She was slightly breathless, her voice thin. "Mrs. Sinclair, I am so sorry. I never intended to wreck your marriage. "I tried to walk away.

I tried to forget him, but I just cannot." "I cannot get Donovan out of my head. I love him so much.

But you have to believe me, I truly never meant to tear your family apart. "Donovan and I… we just met too late.

If he had met me back then, I would have been the one standing at the altar…" "I am sorry, that came out wrong. I just sincerely wanted to apologize to you.

If there is a next life, I will do anything to make it up to you. "But in this life… I simply cannot give Donovan back. I am so sorry." I looked her up and down.

Two years ago, she was a girl who could only afford cheap, fastfashion knockoffs. Now, she was draped headtotoe in quiet luxury.

The designer heels on her feet alone cost more than three years of her salary at the department store. The world is full of social climbers. I used to be one. Now, it was her turn.

I did not say a single word. I frankly could not be bothered to waste my breath on her. I wasn't about to waste my breath schooling a cheap homewrecker.

If she had any concept of basic decency, she would not be so thrilled to play the other woman. "Divorce Mr.

Sinclair!" Her voice echoed shrilly down the hallway behind me. "Just let him go!" Back inside the lounge, the men exchanged nervous glances.

One of them finally gathered the courage to look at Donovan's icy expression. "Donovan, are you not going to go after her?

When a woman gets that quiet, she is usually packing her bags." Donovan stared down at his phone screen, his thumb tracing the photo of the twomilliondollar hush money check I had just paid.

It was impossible to read the dark, swirling depths of his eyes. After a long while, he laughed. "Would a divorce not be perfect? No strings.

Pure freedom." Donovan Sinclair would end up being the very last person in Manhattan to find out about the divorce