MILLIONAIRE PRETENDED TO FAINT TO TEST HIS BRIDE… BUT THE MAID EXPOSES A TE/RRIFY/ING SECRET
“Ever pretend to be on de:ath’s door just to see who actually cares?” Silas Beaumont thought he had everything calculated that stormy afternoon in New Orleans. Glass exploded across marble, and he let himself collapse, trained to hold his breath and stay motionless. But the burning taste crawling up his throat… that wasn’t rehearsed.
He caught a glimpse of Tiffany’s glossy red heel pausing inches from his cheek. She didn’t kneel. Didn’t scream. Just lifted her wine glass with surgical calm.
“At last,” she murmured. “This ridiculous show is finally ending.”
He tried to rise, to laugh and sit up. Nothing. His limbs were stone.
The prank had turned into a trap.
Tiffany strolled around him like she was browsing a boutique.
“Tiny doses,” she sighed. “In your smoothies, your morning coffee. Tonight, I gave a little extra. Our wedding’s tomorrow, but a grieving widow… is worth infinitely more than a runaway bride.”
Her heel tapped his chest like she was testing fabric.
The service door creaked. The scent of lavender and detergent drifted in.
Janette Reyes. The cleaner. She entered humming, froze, rushed.
“Mr. Beaumont!” She checked his pulse. Barely there. She reached for her phone.
Tiffany’s fingers snapped. “Back away. You’re ruining the finale.”
Janette dialed anyway. Tiffany slapped the phone. It shattered in the fireplace like brittle bone.
“You poisoned him?” Janette whispered, voice shaking but unbroken.
Tiffany’s laugh echoed like glass breaking.
MILLIONAIRE PRETENDED TO FAINT TO TEST HIS BRIDE… BUT THE MAID EXPOSES A TE/RRIFY/ING SECRET
Rain hammered against the towering windows of the Beaumont Estate on the northern edge of New Orleans, Louisiana, where mansions slept behind iron gates and manicured lawns. Inside, the chandeliers glistened and classical music floated through the hall, muted by stormy winds. Silas Beaumont, a technology magnate admired across the country, stood barefoot on the marble floor of his private ballroom. He was known for investments, charity galas, and a smile that looked like it had been carved by sculptors, yet his heart was restless.
He adjusted the cuff of his tailored shirt and stared at the reflection in the glass. His own eyes looked back at him, filled with doubt. For months, people whispered that his fiancée loved his wealth more than his soul. He had brushed away the rumors. He believed in loyalty. He believed in seeing the best in people. Still, suspicion coiled through him like fog.
He murmured to himself, “Have you ever pretended to be broken, just to discover who would try to mend you?”
Only the storm answered.
He practiced holding his breath and dropping to the ground in a controlled collapse. His personal trainer, a former stage actor, taught him how to keep muscles loose and still. Today, he planned to stage a fainting spell. The day before the wedding. If Tiffany Monroe, the striking blonde who wore diamonds like air, truly cared, she would show fear and devotion. Silas needed to know before he signed away his heart and the prenuptial agreements that hid behind polite envelopes.
He did not expect the bitterness rising in his throat. It tasted metallic and sharp. When the wineglass slipped from his fingers and shattered across the marble, he thought it was his cue. He let his knees buckle. His body hit the ground with a hollow crack.
He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt like stone.
Nearby, red heels clicked forward. Tiffany appeared in his narrowing field of vision. She towered above him like a goddess of ice, her lipstick matching her shoes. She swirled wine in her glass and only watched him struggle.
“Finally,” she whispered, voice smooth as silk. “The performance is over.”
Silas tried to rise, but his muscles refused. He felt paralysis tightening around him, moving through his veins like poison. Panic bloomed. He had rehearsed stillness for five minutes. He had not rehearsed losing control. This was not part of the plan.
The heels moved around him in slow circles. Tiffany studied him like merchandise.
“Months of preparation,” she said. “A drop here. A drop there. In your morning smoothie. In your evening tea. Little by little until your body started failing. And tonight, we give it one last nudge.”
Her heel tapped his shoulder as if brushing off lint.
She continued. “Tomorrow, the vows. Then the tragic honeymoon incident. A grieving widow inherits the empire. It certainly pays better than being a runaway fiancée who got bored of waiting.”
Silas’s vision flickered. His thoughts scattered like the shards of glass beneath him.
The sound of a door opening broke Tiffany’s moment of triumph. The scent of citrus cleaner and lavender entered first, followed by Janette Reyes, the estate’s cleaning lady. She hummed while pushing a cart and came in to tidy up before the storm knocked out the power. She froze when she saw Silas on the floor.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she exclaimed, rushing to his side. She knelt and pressed two fingers to his throat. “Your pulse is weak. You need help.”
