Billion Dollar Deception

Camila Frost's POV

People call me resilient. Composed. Dignified. They see the polished exterior I've crafted with the same precision I use to design jewelry. What they don't see is how I was forged—an orphan molded by abandonment, adopted into a family that treated me like an unwanted accessory. My heart didn't break under their cruelty; it crystallized. Like the gems I work with daily, pressure transformed me into something hard and brilliant.

I drag myself through the front door of the Frost mansion at midnight, exhaustion weighing on me like lead. The hospital called this morning with news that Irene Powell—the housekeeper who showed me more motherly love than anyone else—has been diagnosed with stage four renal failure. She needs dialysis immediately and a transplant soon. The doctors spoke of costs that made my stomach knot. Where will I find that kind of money?

I check my phone, hoping for a message from Derek. Nothing. Three missed calls from the hospital, but nothing from the man who promised to always be there for me. I slip off my shoes, trying to move silently through the marble foyer. The house is quiet except for—

A moan echoes from upstairs. Then another. I freeze, my hand gripping the banister. That voice... I know that voice.

"God, Derek... fuck me harder... don't stop!"

My blood turns to ice. Victoria. My adoptive sister. And Derek—my Derek—is with her.

I should walk away. I should protect what's left of my dignity. Instead, my feet carry me up the stairs, each step deliberate and silent. Victoria's bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. I don't want to look, but I need to see the truth with my own eyes.

Through the gap, I see them tangled in her silk sheets. Derek's muscular back glistens with sweat as he thrusts into her, the dim light catching the curve of his ass. Victoria's manicured nails rake down his shoulders, her breasts flushed and bouncing with each movement. The diamond earrings I designed for her birthday catch the light as she arches beneath him.

"When are you going to leave that frigid bitch?" Victoria gasps, her legs locking around his hips. "I'm tired of pretending you don't know how to make a woman scream."

"Soon," Derek grunts, his hand squeezing her thigh hard enough to leave marks. "It's complicated."

Complicated. The word echoes in my mind as I push the door open. It swings wide, hitting the wall with a crack that makes them both freeze.

Derek turns, still in her. "Camila! This isn't—"

"What it looks like?" I finish for him, my eyes deliberately tracing Victoria's exposed body. "Because it looks like my boyfriend's been balls-deep in my sister."

Victoria doesn't even try to cover herself. Instead, she looks right at me, running a hand through her tousled blonde hair. "Surprise, sis. Turns out your man prefers real women over ice princesses."

Derek scrambles off her, grabbing a pillow to cover himself. "Baby, please. She kept coming to my office, wearing these tight little skirts—"

"I've been at the hospital all day," I say, cutting him off. My nostrils flare at the scent of sex and her cloying jasmine perfume. "Irene is dying. I called you three times. But you were too busy fucking your way through my family to answer."

"Camila, I swear this is the first time—"

"Don't insult my intelligence on top of everything else." I step into the room, my eyes fixed on the hickey blooming below his collarbone. "How long?"

Victoria laughs, stretching like a satisfied cat. "Six months."

The timeline hits me like a slap. Six months—half our relationship. Every date night he canceled, every late work meeting, every weekend trip with "the guys"—all lies.

"Camila, she's a fucking succubus," Derek pleads, reaching for his pants. "I was weak. I made a mistake."

"A mistake is forgetting an anniversary," I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. "This was a choice. A choice you made every time you buried yourself in that cheap pussy."

I turn to leave—I've seen enough, heard enough—when Victoria's voice stops me.

"I'm pregnant."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I turn slowly, searching her face for signs of deception, but the triumphant gleam in her eyes tells me it's true.

Derek looks as shocked as I feel. "What? You can't be—"

"Twelve weeks," Victoria says, tracing her still-flat stomach with crimson nails. "Daddy's going to be furious. I was supposed to spread my legs for that Blackwell bastard, not your pathetic ex."

As if summoned by her words, the door to the master bedroom opens down the hall. Gregory and Pamela Frost emerge in matching silk robes, drawn by the commotion.

"What in God's name is going on here?" Gregory demands, then stops short at the scene before him.

Pamela's eyes narrow as she takes in Derek's disheveled state and Victoria's flushed skin. "Victoria Frost! What have you done?"

I step back, eager to escape this nightmare, but Pamela's sharp eyes catch the movement.

"Stay right there, Camila," she commands. "This concerns you too."

Gregory's face darkens as he enters the room. "Get dressed, both of you. Now."

Victoria wraps a sheet around herself, the fabric clinging to her sweat-dampened curves. "Daddy, I can't marry Adrian Blackwell. I'm carrying Derek's little mistake."

Pamela gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The Blackwells will pull out of the merger! Your father has staked everything on this arrangement!"

"I don't care, mother," Victoria says petulantly, her lower lip jutting in a practiced pout. "I'm not marrying some loser heir just because you want his family's money."

I inch toward the door. This family drama isn't mine to witness. I have more important concerns—like how to pay for Irene's treatment.

"Camila." Pamela's voice stops me cold. There's a calculating tone I recognize all too well—the same one she used when explaining why sixteen-year-old me needed to "entertain" her business partner at the charity gala. "Come here."

Reluctantly, I turn back. Pamela studies me with the same appraising look she gives to potential acquisitions.

"You'll take Victoria's place," she says finally. "You'll marry Adrian Blackwell."

The room spins around me. "What?"

"It's perfect," Pamela continues, warming to her idea. "The contract only specifies a Frost daughter. It doesn't specify which one."

"You can't be serious," I say, disbelief making my voice shake. "I'm not some broodmare you can auction off."

"Irene needs specialized treatment, doesn't she?" Pamela's smile is razor-sharp. "Treatment that costs more than you'll make in five years in that little jewelry shop."

My stomach drops. Of course she would use Irene against me. "That's low, even for you."

"It's practical," Pamela counters. "You marry Adrian Blackwell, we fund Irene's treatment. Everyone wins."

"Except me," I say bitterly. "And Adrian."

Gregory clears his throat. "The boy's a wastrel, but he comes from good stock. The Blackwells need this merger as much as we do. They'll accept the substitution."

I look at Derek, still fumbling with his zipper, at Victoria's smug face, at my adoptive parents calculating my worth like I'm a piece on a chessboard. This is my family—the people who should protect me, not pimp me out.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Pamela shrugs elegantly. "Then poor Irene will have to rely on public healthcare. Such a shame, at her age."

The room falls silent. They know they have me cornered. Irene was there when no one else was—the only one who showed me kindness when I first arrived at this cold house. She taught me to stand tall, to believe in myself when everyone else tried to break me down.

"I want it in writing," I say finally. "A contract guaranteeing Irene's treatment, for as long as she needs it."

Surprise flickers across Pamela's face—she didn't expect me to negotiate. "Fine."

"And I want my own apartment after the wedding. I won't live under the same roof as your whore daughter."

Gregory nods. "Reasonable. Anything else?"

I look at Derek, who has the decency to look ashamed. "Yes. I want him out of this house. Tonight."

Victoria starts to protest, but Gregory silences her with a look. "Done. The engagement will be announced tomorrow. The wedding will take place within the month."

I turn to leave, dignity intact despite the wreckage of my life around me. At the door, I pause and look back at Victoria.

"Congratulations on the baby," I say, my voice steady. "I hope it doesn't inherit its parents' lack of restraint."

I walk to my room, close the door softly, and only then do I allow myself to sink to the floor. Tears don't come—I learned long ago that crying doesn't solve anything. Instead, I feel a cold resolve settling over me.

They think Adrian Blackwell is an idler, a wastrel, a nobody. They're throwing me to him like scraps to a dog. But I've survived worse than an unwanted marriage. I'll endure this too—for Irene's sake.

I pull out my phone and search for "Adrian Blackwell." There's little information available—a few blurry photos at charity events, standing in the shadow of his more prominent family members. He looks unremarkable: average height, dark hair, serious expression. Not the face of a playboy or wastrel.

I wonder what he'll think when he discovers he's getting the adopted daughter instead of the biological one. Will he be disappointed? Angry? Or maybe, just maybe, as trapped in this arrangement as I am?

It doesn't matter. This isn't about love or happiness. It's a transaction—my freedom for Irene's life. As a jewelry designer, I know the value of things. I know what I'm worth. And I know that some sacrifices are worth making, even if they break you in the process.

Tomorrow, I'll become Adrian Blackwell's fiancée. But tonight, I mourn the life I thought I had, and prepare for the one being forced upon me.