I Married A Billionaire’s Daughter For Revenge — Now I Cannot Let Her Go

Part 1

The watch ticked violently against my ribs as I stood at the altar of the small, drafty chapel.

It was my father’s silver pocket watch, a heavy, scratched piece of metal that had been in my family for generations.

He had carried it every single day until the afternoon Craig Fowler foreclosed on our family construction business without a second thought.

I was thirteen years old when I found my dad sitting at the worn kitchen table, staring blankly at a piece of paper that erased our entire lives.

The pocket watch had been sitting on the table, ticking away the final seconds of his dignity.

I picked it up that day, put it in my pocket, and promised myself I would make the man who did this pay.

I had spent two long years meticulously planning this exact moment, engineering every single step of my revenge.

I had walked into boardrooms that had never heard my family’s name, smiled at the right corporate planners, and secured the initial foundation contracts.

I had paid off event organizers to be seated next to Megan Fowler at charity galas, choosing my words with the cold precision of a surgeon.

I had played the long game until Craig Fowler looked at me not as a working-class vendor from Queens, but as a suitable son-in-law.

And now, I stood at the altar in a custom suit, feeling the steady pulse of the watch, waiting for the billionaire’s daughter to walk down the aisle.

I told myself I had finally won, that the trap was perfectly set.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel slowly creaked open.

Megan Fowler walked down the aisle in a column of flawless ivory silk, her face partially obscured by a delicate veil.

She had spent her entire life training not to show emotion in public, moving with the practiced grace of a woman who knew she was constantly being evaluated.

As she reached the altar, she lifted her face to mine, and her eyes found me in the soft, golden light of the chapel.

The perfect composure she was famous for slipped just a fraction of an inch.

“You look terrified,” she breathed.

The words were so quiet that they barely reached my ears over the sound of the organ music.

A rough, startled laugh scraped its way out of my throat before I could stop it.

“Hi,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of the polished, charming veneer I had practiced for months.

It was the most honest, unfiltered thing I had said to her in two entire years of manipulation.

The officiant began the ceremony, his words drifting over us like distant weather that I didn’t care to pay attention to.

When it was time for the rings, Megan gave me her hand, her slender fingers trembling slightly under my touch.

Her thumb brushed over her bare ring finger in a nervous, completely unconscious habit she didn’t even know she had.

The realization hit me with the physical force of a sudden, terrifying drop in altitude.

I was going to have to find a way to live with what I was doing to this innocent woman.

I slipped the heavy gold band onto her finger, sealing the trap I had built for her family.

She closed her fingers around mine for a second longer than the script required.

The next morning, our new Manhattan apartment was suffocatingly quiet.

I stood in the massive, pristine kitchen wearing a plain gray t-shirt and last night’s suit trousers.

I stared blankly at six different expensive coffee machines, holding a small bag of cheap, dark roast beans I had brought with me.

Footsteps padded softly across the cold marble floor.

Megan stood in the doorway, wearing one of my old, faded button-down shirts.

“You found the grinder?” she asked.

“I found six,” I replied, not turning around.

“Three of them are jugs,” she said, stepping closer to take the correct black machine down from the high shelf.

Her fingers accidentally brushed against mine as she handed it to me.

She pulled her hand back immediately, retreating to the far side of the massive kitchen island.

“You poor thing, let me find the manual for you,” she said, the words coming out with a practiced, self-deprecating tone.

My jaw tightened instinctively, the old anger flaring up for a brief second.

I poured the beans into the grinder and pressed the button.

I bypassed her fancy equipment entirely, setting my cheap, battered moka pot on the stove and lighting the blue gas flame.

When it was ready, I slid a small ceramic espresso cup across the cold marble counter toward her.

“Don’t tell anyone I made that with the wrong grinder,” I said, my tone flat.

A surprised, genuine laugh escaped her lips, echoing in the large room.

Her carefully constructed guard dropped completely.

She picked up the cup, took a tentative sip, and closed her eyes in appreciation.

“I need to know what you actually drink in the morning,” I said, watching her carefully.

“Not what you let the people who have made your coffee for twenty-eight years assume you drink, but what you actually want.”

She went incredibly still, her eyes searching my face.

No one in her entire life had ever bothered to ask her what she wanted behind closed doors.

“Black tea,” she said eventually, her voice barely a whisper.

“With a great deal too much sugar.”

I reached up into the cabinet above the kettle, bypassing the expensive loose-leaf tins.

I pulled out the bright red box of cheap, supermarket tea bags I had intentionally brought in my duffel bag.

I placed the box deliberately on the marble counter between us.

“I had a feeling,” I said quietly.

She stared at the red box for a very long time, her breathing shallow and uneven.

“Thank you,” she finally whispered.

My chest tightened painfully.

I had married her solely to get close enough to destroy her father’s empire.

I knew she was going to find out what I had done.