My Wedding Was a Fake, So I Claimed My Fortune and a Billionaire novel · Chapter 10 of 24

Chapter 10: The Real Mrs. Foster

Imogen Foster arrived at ten sharp, in a camel coat, carrying a diaper-bag-sized purse and no child.

I let her in myself.

The penthouse was bright with morning, and Auden had vanished into a study down the hall with a promise that the door would stay shut.

She stood in the foyer and took in the stone and the glass.

"I thought you'd be smaller," she said.

"I thought you'd be angrier."

"I'm very angry," Imogen said. "I'm just so tired I can't find where it went."

I took her coat.

I made tea, because she looked like a woman who needed something to hold.

We sat on the long gray couch with the Atlanta skyline spread out behind us, and she told me.

She'd met Davis nine years ago, in a hotel bar in Savannah, on a business trip she'd never have taken if her flight hadn't been canceled.

They married two years later in a small church in Buckhead.

Teddy came the year after that.

For the last three years Davis had traveled "for work," Monday to Thursday, to a city he never named.

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