Chapter 3How to Prank Your Billionaire Husband

Yesterday, after organizing my handbag collection, I decided to be a benevolent wife and visit Caleb in his study.

I walked in quietly and stood behind his chair.

He was on the phone, holding a photo in his hand.

"Caleb!" I shouted, popping up over his shoulder.

Usually, he'd pull me onto his lap and let me look at whatever boring contract he was reading. But this time, he jumped. He shoved the photo into a drawer and slammed it shut.

"Caleb, what are you hiding?"

His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. For a man who negotiates billion-dollar deals, he looked incredibly guilty. "Nothing. Just... trash."

"Liar," I said. He was tapping his finger on the desk—his tell.

I reached for the drawer.

"It's nothing, I said!" He grabbed my wrist, stopping me. He locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

"What can't you tell me?" I asked, feeling a sting of betrayal. Even when his company was in crisis, he let me play with confidential files like they were coloring books.

He wouldn't answer.

I got agitated and tried to grab the key. In the struggle, I tripped. Caleb caught me before I hit the floor, but instead of asking if I was okay, he snapped.

"Chloe, when are you going to stop acting like a child?"

His voice was cold, sharp with anger.

I froze. I glared at him. "If you can't stand me, Caleb, then divorce me."

I stormed out. He didn't follow.

Men.

I wasn't going to cry over him. I packed a bag and moved into the guest room.

But lying on the silk sheets, the tears came anyway.

Because I saw the photo.

It was an old, frayed picture of a woman.

And that woman looked exactly like me.