Billionaire's Bride

Walking STD

---

After watching Janette for a while, Asher rolled his eyes and left the hall, but not before giving some quick instructions to a maid. Janette remained there, frozen like a statue, unable to speak or move, her mind still processing everything that had just happened.

"Madam?" a soft voice broke through her thoughts.

"Hmm?" she murmured, finally turning her gaze toward the maid.

"Let me take you to your room. You must be tired after such a long journey," the maid suggested gently. Janette nodded absently, still feeling numb.

"Where’s my suitcase?" she found herself asking, trying to grasp onto something practical to ground herself.

"It has already been brought to your room, madam," Mart replied with a polite smile.

It felt strange to be treated with such deference, especially by someone twice her age.

"Thank you. And please, don’t call me 'madam.' Just Janette, or Jane," she insisted, trying to ease the awkwardness.

"But, madam—"

"Consider it an order," Janette said firmly.

"Very well, Jane," the older woman said with a grin. "You are made for Mr. Norman," she added with a chuckle, but Janette felt a wave of dread at the mention of his name.

Made for him? She shuddered inwardly. That man is no angel but a demon in disguise. Still, she had to remember that everyone in this mansion depended on him for their livelihood. She would have to play the part, pretend she loved him, or at least hide the truth. They would draw their own conclusions in time.

When Mart finally revealed the room she would be staying in, Janette couldn’t deny that it was beautiful. But even here, she had to sanitize her hands to open the door. Every room in this house was designed with the same obsessive cleanliness.

Thank God that jerk wasn’t going to be staying with her; the idea of sharing the same air with him was intolerable. But her relief was short-lived when she spotted his portrait hanging above the master bed, and worse, his meticulously organized clothes occupying half of the walk-in closet alongside hers.

She was astonished at the speed and efficiency of the staff; her things were already unpacked and neatly arranged. She was grateful she wouldn’t have to handle her suitcase herself, but the thought of sharing this room with Asher filled her with dread.

"What the hell? I can't sleep next to a walking STD," she fumed inwardly. But she was too drained to act on her frustration. All she wanted was the bed, and as soon as she saw the plush mattress, she collapsed onto it, fiddling absentmindedly with the pendant Eric had given her. The woman in the photo looked strikingly beautiful, with the same red hair as hers, and the man bore an uncanny resemblance to Robert Stark.

Was Eric telling the truth? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she missed the people at the Cameron family home—the only real parents she’d ever known. A few tears slipped out as she thought of them, and soon enough, sleep claimed her.

The next morning, the soft sunlight creeping across her face woke her. She panicked when she felt a large hand draped across her stomach. Turning her head, she realized it belonged to the handsome devil she called her husband. In sleep, his face was softer, almost boyish, his messy hair tousled over his forehead, and she couldn’t help but admit he looked—cute.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, suddenly realizing he was shirtless. Then, reality hit her—this was her husband. Maybe he had every right to share a bed with her. But a wave of cold fear washed over her as she thought about how people would pity her if they knew the truth about their relationship. What kind of wife am I? she thought, shivering at the idea. Even knowing about his affairs, she was still here. The thought was enough to chill her to the bone.

---