The Contract Ex-Husband of Wealthy Widow

Chapter 10: Scandal Over Death

"Keep your chin up, Raka. You’re looking at the floor like you’re searching for your dignity. It’s not there. I checked."

Bianca’s voice was a low, velvet purr as she adjusted the silk pocket square in Raka’s tuxedo. They stood in the foyer of the Metropolitan Museum, the air thick with the scent of lilies and the suffocating musk of old money.

"It’s hard to look proud when I’m essentially a piece of arm candy for a woman who talks about burial like it’s a hobby," Raka replied, his voice tight.

"Arm candy? Don't be so modest. You’re the shield. Tonight, the Seraphim Gala is full of Antonio’s vultures. They think they can smell blood because I’m 'alone.' You’re here to show them I’ve already replaced the heart of the empire."

"Antonio. That’s the husband who went off the cliff in Amalfi?"

"The very one. A tragic loss," she said, her eyes twinkling with a mirth that made Raka’s skin crawl. "Now, smile. Here comes Arthur Vance. He was Antonio’s 'best friend.' He’s also the man trying to sue me for twenty percent of the logistics fleet."

A portly man with a face like a bulldog approached, clutching a scotch like it was a lifeline. "Bianca. You look... radiant. As always."

"Arthur. I’d say it’s good to see you, but I was taught not to lie in a house of culture," Bianca chirped. "I don't think you’ve met my husband, Raka."

Arthur’s eyes bulged. "Husband? You... you’re married? Already? Antonio hasn't been in the ground for a year!"

"Time is a relative concept, Arthur," Raka said, stepping forward and offering a hand that the older man ignored. "When you find something as precious as Bianca, you don't wait for the calendar to tell you it’s okay."

"Raka is a private equity specialist," Bianca added, leaning her head on Raka’s shoulder. "He’s been helping me restructure the offshore accounts. You know, the ones you’ve been trying to freeze?"

Arthur turned a deep shade of purple. "This is a disgrace, Bianca. Antonio would be turning in his grave."

"Let him turn. Maybe he’ll find the fifty million he gambled away in Macau," Bianca hissed, her smile never wavering. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, Raka needs a drink, and I need to stop looking at your double chin. It’s depressing."

As they moved into the main ballroom, Raka leaned closer to her ear. "You really know how to make friends, don't you?"

"I don't need friends, Raka. I need terror. Go get me a martini. Extra dirty. And don't talk to the waitstaff; they’re all aspiring actors looking for a payout."

"I’ll be back," Raka said, needing the distance.

He headed toward the bar, but his mind was spinning. The way Arthur had looked at him—it wasn't just shock. It was confusion. *Antonio hasn't been in the ground for a year.*

Raka bypassed the bar and slipped into a quiet, dim hallway lined with Egyptian artifacts. He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling as he opened a private browser. He typed in *Antonio Moretti. Death. Amalfi.*

The search results flooded the screen.

*LOGISTICS TYCOON FEARED DEAD IN COASTAL CRASH.*

*THE MYSTERY OF THE AMALFI CLIFF: NO BODY RECOVERED.*

Raka frowned. No body? He scrolled deeper, past the tabloid headlines, until he found a local Italian news archive. He used a translation app to scan the text.

*“The vehicle was found charred at the base of the cliffs. While DNA fragments were identified, the intensity of the fire left no remains for a traditional burial. Madam Bianca Moretti declared a period of mourning shortly thereafter.”*

"DNA fragments," Raka whispered. "Convenient."

He clicked on another link—a socialite blog from three years ago. His heart stopped. There was a photo of Bianca at a New Year's Eve party. She was draped over a man who wasn't Antonio. The caption read: *Bianca and her fiancé, Marcus Thorne, celebrating their upcoming nuptials.*

Raka searched for *Marcus Thorne*.

*MARCUS THORNE, FINANCIER, DIES IN PRIVATE JET EXPLOSION OVER THE ANDES.*

"Two?" Raka felt a cold sweat break across his forehead. "She was a 'widow' before Antonio?"

He kept digging. There was a third name. *Julian Vane*. Died of a sudden "allergic reaction" at a dinner party in Milan. Bianca had been the only one with him.

"She’s not a widow," Raka realized, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "She’s a professional beneficiary."

"You look like you’ve found something more interesting than the martini list, darling."

Raka nearly dropped the phone. Bianca was standing at the end of the hallway, her crimson dress shimmering like fresh blood in the low light. She walked toward him, her heels clicking rhythmically on the stone floor.

"I was just... checking the markets," Raka lied, shoving the phone into his pocket.

"The markets don't make a man’s pupils dilate like that. You’ve been digging, haven't you? Elena warned me you were a curious little creature."

"Elena warned you?"

"She likes to keep her assets informed. She told me you were asking questions about Anya’s 'accidents.' I suppose you’ve found my collection now, too?"

Bianca stopped inches from him, her scent—copper and carnations—filling his lungs. She reached out and pulled the phone from his pocket before he could stop her. She looked at the screen, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips.

"Ah, Julian. He was a lovely man. Terribly sensitive to peanuts, though. And Marcus... well, Marcus always did have a flare for the dramatic. A jet explosion? Very cinematic."

"You killed them," Raka said, his voice a ghost of a sound.

"I helped them fulfill their destinies," Bianca corrected. She deleted the search history with a flick of her thumb and handed the phone back. "They were men who had reached their peak. They were going to start declining. I simply ensured their legacies remained intact—and in my hands."

"And Antonio?"

"Antonio was a gambler. He was going to lose everything. I saved the company, Raka. I saved the thousands of people who work for us. Does that make me a monster? Or a savior?"

"It makes you a murderer."

Bianca laughed, a rich, dark sound that echoed off the ancient statues. "Murder is such a middle-class word. In this world, it’s called 'succession planning.' And you, Raka... you are the most important part of the current plan."

"Me? I’m just a contract husband. We’re supposed to divorce in six months."

"That was the plan for Anya. Anya is soft. She likes the scandal. I, however, prefer the finality of a tragedy."

Raka felt the blood drain from his face. "You’re going to kill me."

"Eventually," she whispered, her hand moving to his throat, her thumb tracing the line of his pulse. "But not yet. You’re too much fun. And I need the world to see me as the grieving wife one last time before I retire the act. A divorce would be so... messy. A second tragic loss? That brings out the sympathy of the board of directors."

"I won't do it. I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell Elena—"

"Elena knows, Raka," Bianca hissed, her eyes locking onto his with a terrifying intensity. "Who do you think handled the 'legalities' of the insurance claims? Who do you think ensured the Italian police didn't look too closely at the brake lines? Artemis & Associates isn't a law firm. It’s an upholstery shop. They cover up the stains."

Raka felt a wave of nausea. Elena. The woman he’d been attracted to, the woman he thought was his only way out, was the architect of the slaughterhouse.

"You’re trapped, Raka," Bianca said, her voice dropping to a low, suggestive rasp. "You signed the contract. You took the money. You’re an accomplice now. If I go down, you go down with me. And believe me, the men who want Antonio’s money back won't be as gentle as I am."

She pushed him back against a stone sarcophagus, her body pressing into his. "You’re shaking. I can feel your heart trying to jump out of your chest. It’s so... primal."

"Get off me," Raka growled, though his legs felt like lead.

"No. I think I like this. The fear makes you look alive. More alive than Antonio ever was."

She reached down, her hand moving with a sudden, violent intent to his trousers. "You want to run, don't you? You want to scream. But you’re also curious. You want to know what it’s like to sleep with the devil."

"You're insane," Raka panted, his mind a chaotic blur of terror and a dark, twisted arousal he couldn't suppress.

"I'm the only reality you have left," she said. She hiked up her dress, the silk rustling loudly in the quiet hall. She didn't care if a security guard or a guest walked in. The risk seemed to fuel her. "Take me, Raka. Right here. Amongst the dead. Show me that you’re man enough to be a widower’s last mistake."

She forced him down onto the cold stone of the sarcophagus, her movements a frantic, aggressive blur. She entered herself with a sharp gasp, her eyes never leaving his. It wasn't an act of passion; it was a desecration. She rode him with a ruthless, mechanical force, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders.

"Yes," she hissed, her breath hot and smelling of gin. "Look at me. Look at the woman who’s going to be the last thing you ever see. Do you feel the power, Raka? The power of knowing that life and death are just... transactions?"

Raka let out a jagged, broken sound. He hated her. He was terrified of her. But his body was responding to the sheer, lethal energy she exuded. He gripped her hips, his fingers bruising her skin, his thrusts fueled by a desperate, panicked need to survive the moment.

"That's it," she moaned, her head falling back as she neared her peak. "Give me the ghost. Give me the man who’s already dead!"

When she finished, she let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped against him, her sweat cooling instantly in the chilled air of the museum. She stayed there for a moment, her heart hammering against his, before she pushed herself up and smoothed her dress with a terrifyingly calm efficiency.

"That was... refreshing," she said, checking her hair in the reflection of a display case. "You have a lot of potential, Raka. It’s a shame we have to end it eventually."

Raka stayed on the stone, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. "Why are you telling me this? Why not just kill me tonight?"

"Because the anticipation is the best part," she said, leaning down to give him a light, mocking kiss on the forehead. "And because I want you to know that every time you look at Elena, you’re looking at my partner in crime. You have nowhere to go, Raka. No one to trust."

She turned and began walking back toward the ballroom, her heels clicking a steady, lethal beat. "Fix your suit. We have three more hours of 'adoring' gazes to get through. And try not to look so haunted. It ruins the photos."

Raka sat up, his body trembling, the cold stone of the sarcophagus seeping into his bones. He looked at his hands. They were stained with the scent of her perfume and the sweat of a woman who had faked three deaths.

He realized then that the "contract husband" business wasn't just about money or reputation. It was a conveyor belt for corpses. And he was the next item on the line.

He pulled out his phone again. He didn't look at the news. He looked at Elena’s contact information.

*I need to see you. Now.*

He hit send.

He didn't know if he was asking for help or walking into a trap, but as he heard the distant laughter of the gala, he knew one thing for certain:

The play was over. The hunt had begun. And in this world of wealthy widows, the only thing more valuable than a husband was a dead one.

"I'm not going to be your next headline, Bianca," he whispered to the shadows. "I'm going to be your ghost."

But as he stood up and straightened his tuxedo, the reflection in the glass didn't look like a hero. It looked like a man who had already been buried.