At the airport, they abandoned me; a billionaire whispered a lie Trust me they’ll regret it!

At the airport, after an argument, my parents and sister cancelled my ticket and left me stranded in Europe. No boarding pass, no phone, no way to call for help. A man who looked like a multi-millionaire, impeccably dressed, walked toward me and whispered, «Pretend you’re my wife; my driver is about to arrive.»

Then he added with a cold smile, «Trust me, they’ll regret this.»

And he was right. I had no idea just how right. My name is Joyce Romero, and I’m 38 years old. That day at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, everything shattered in seconds. We’d flown in as a family—my parents, my sister, and me—for a trip I’d helped fund heavily, hoping it would fix the cracks after my divorce.

But at the check-in counter, the fight erupted fast. I said no to sending more money home right away; I was finally prioritizing my own savings. They turned on me instantly, calling me selfish, unstable, and claiming I was always a source of worry.

My sister had taken my phone and charger earlier for group photos. My mom had my passport to handle all the documents together. When they collected their boarding passes and headed to security, I realized my return ticket was gone.

They’d canceled it coldly, saying I could figure things out on my own. Without a backward glance, they disappeared through the gate. I stood frozen, heart pounding, realizing I’d been set up.

No phone to call anyone, no boarding pass to follow. I rushed to the help desk, explaining desperately, but security stepped in, telling me to leave the restricted area. That’s when he approached: the stranger in the sharp suit who’d clearly been watching my struggle.

He leaned close and delivered those exact words. In that moment of pure desperation, I gripped his hand and followed him out. As the limousine pulled away from the terminal, I glanced back at the fading lights, a cold resolve building inside. They thought they’d left me broken. But they were wrong.

The limousine glided smoothly through the darkened streets of Paris, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. I sat in the back seat next to the stranger who had just pulled me from the brink, my mind racing as I tried to process what had happened. The driver up front remained silent, focused on the road, while the man beside me stared ahead for a moment before turning to me.

«I suppose introductions are in order,» he said, his voice calm and measured with a faint American accent. «Alexander Hayes, 42.»

«I run a real estate group based in New York.»

I nodded, still gripping my small carry-on bag like a lifeline. «Joyce Romero,» I replied, my words coming out steadier than I felt. «38. Thank you for… whatever this is.»

He gave a slight smile, not warm, but genuine enough. «I saw you at the help desk. You weren’t panicking outwardly; you were trying to fix it yourself. That caught my eye. Most people would have broken down completely.»

I glanced at him, surprised by the observation. He had been watching longer than I realized. «I didn’t have much choice. Security was about to escort me out.»

Alexander leaned back against the leather seat. «Exactly. Resourceful. That’s why I stepped in. I need someone like that for a short time.»

He paused as the car turned onto a quieter avenue, then continued. «In a couple of weeks, I have a major charity gala in New York. It’s not just fundraising. It’s where I close a big development deal with conservative partners. They value stability and tradition.»

He looked at me directly. «A widowed man in his early 40s still grieving makes them nervous. They worry about emotional decisions affecting business.»

I listened, piecing it together. «And that’s where the ‘pretend wife’ part comes in?»

«Precisely,» he said. «My wife died two years ago in a car accident. It’s public knowledge. My younger brother, Nathan, has been using it to stir doubt inside the company, suggesting I’m not fit to lead anymore. A stable marriage appearance would shut that down temporarily.»

The mention of loss hit close. I thought about my own divorce, the way it had left me rebuilding everything alone. «I’m sorry about your wife.»

He acknowledged it with a nod but didn’t dwell. «It’s business. I need a partner for the event. Someone believable, not an actress who’d come off scripted.»

I shifted in my seat, the reality sinking in. «And you picked me? A complete stranger stranded at an airport?»

«You handled yourself well under pressure,» he repeated. «That’s rare.»

The car slowed as we approached a private terminal outside the main airport. Alexander outlined the deal plainly. «You play the role for the gala and related events. In return, I get you back to the States tonight on my jet, provide secure housing in my Manhattan penthouse, $50,000 in cash, and a new phone. Plus, I’ll help you figure out what your family is really up to.»

Something about that abandonment felt calculated. $50,000. The number landed heavily; it was more than I’d saved in the last year. But I wasn’t ready to jump blindly.

«What’s the risk for me? If this is just business for you, why trust me not to talk?»

He met my eyes directly. «Fair question. I don’t. But the agreement would include confidentiality on both sides. And honestly, I’m in a weak spot too. Nathan has dug up a couple of recent deals where grief might have clouded my judgment, including one investment that didn’t pan out as planned. He’s building a case against me internally. I need this to buy time.»

His honesty surprised me. He wasn’t presenting himself as invincible. I weighed the immediate safety, the money, and the chance to uncover whatever my parents and sister were planning. After years of putting their needs first, this felt like taking control back.

«One more thing,» I said firmly. «My identity stays protected. No real names in public, if possible, and I get final say on what stories we tell about us.»

Alexander considered it, then extended his hand. «Deal.»

We shook on it as the limousine stopped at the private hangar. A sleek jet waited on the tarmac, engines already warming. We boarded quickly, the cabin luxurious but understated with plush seats and dim lighting.

I buckled in as the plane taxied, exhaustion finally hitting. Alexander worked on his laptop across from me, giving space. I closed my eyes, the hum of the engines lulling me. For the first time that day, I wasn’t alone in crisis. Sleep came easier than expected.

When the jet touched down in New York hours later, the sky was turning light with dawn. A discreet car met us on the runway, driving straight into the city. We pulled up to a high-rise in Manhattan, the doorman nodding familiarly to Alexander.

Inside the private elevator, he said quietly, «Elena Morales, my housekeeper, will show you to a guest suite. Get some rest.»

The doors opened to the penthouse, spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. Elena, a warm woman in her fifties, greeted us softly and led me down a hallway to a beautifully appointed room. As she left me to settle in, I stood at the window watching the city wake up below. Tired to my core, but for the first time in hours, a spark of possibility flickered. I had made a choice on my own terms.

The guest suite felt like a sanctuary after the chaos: soft lighting, crisp sheets, and a view of the city that made everything below seem distant. I showered quickly, letting the hot water wash away the grime of travel and shock, then changed into comfortable clothes Elena had laid out. The new phone Alexander provided sat on the nightstand, fully charged and ready.

I picked it up without hesitation, scrolling to the only contact I’d added so far: Diane Russell, my cousin, who’d always been more like a sister when things got tough with my own family. She answered on the second ring, her voice laced with worry.