Chapter 1
My name is Audrey Moore.
Everyone said that dropping out of the rat race is a sin.
But I thought they simply haven't been pushed to their absolute limit like I was.
At my last job, I pulled all-nighters for an entire week straight.
I finally collapsed in the break room and almost didn't wake up.
When I did come to, the first thing I did was fumble for my phone to check the project group chat.
My manager's message read: [Audrey, is that presentation deck finished yet?]
I ripped out my IV then and there.
Quit on the spot, I threw my resignation letter right in his face.
I had about 800 dollars left in my bank account, enough to survive for a month.
I managed to stretch it for twenty-nine days.
On the night of the twenty-ninth day, my landlord started pounding on my door.
"Audrey! If you don't pay up by tomorrow, pack your bags and get out!"
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks.
Suddenly, my phone lit up.
An unknown number.
"Miss Moore? This is Landon Perez, Mr. Kinsley's assistant.
"We have a job offer for you. A monthly salary of thirty thousand dollars, room and board included. You can start immediately."
"What's the job?" I asked.
He said, "Being Mrs. Kinsley."
I asked, "Who is Mr. Kinsley?"
"Nolan Kinsley. Of the Kinsley Group."
"Me?"
He replied, "Yes. Mr. Kinsley believes you are... suitable."
"Suitable for what?" I pressed.
"Suitable to become his wife," he clarified.
He continued, "The contract and prenuptial agreement are ready. They will be sent to your email shortly. We require your signature tomorrow at 10 AM at the Kinsley residence."
"And if I refuse?" I challenged.
"With all due respect, Miss Moore," his tone shifted, becoming firmer, "it appears you are not in a position to refuse. Your current landlord is an employee of a subsidiary within the Kinsley Group."
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks.
I had my count. Seventeen in total.
"Fine," I agreed flatly.
And just like that, I married Nolan, a forty-eight-year-old widower, father of three adult sons, a man worth billions.
The wedding was a simple affair. We obtained the marriage certificate, and I signed the documents.
The prenuptial agreement was as thick as a brick.
Its core stipulation was simple: As the legal wife of Nolan, I have no claim on the Kinsley Group's core assets, no interference in any business decisions, and no meddling in the lives of Nolan or his three children.
In return, I would receive a monthly allowance of thirty thousand dollars, supplemented by an unlimited credit card to 'uphold the public image befitting Nolan's wife.'
I signed.
I signed so quickly that the assistant, Landon, was taken aback.
"Miss Moore," he ventured, "don't you wish to review the other clauses?"
"No need," I replied.
"May I ask why?" he pressed.
"My only concern," I stated plainly, "is whether the bed is big enough."
Nolan's bed was, indeed, big enough.
Lying in it felt like settling into a cloud.
But Nolan was rarely there to share it.
He was constantly busy—making money, flying around the globe, expanding the Kinsley Group empire.
My role was simple: on the occasional evening when he required a companion for a formal event, I would be the woman on his arm.
My duties were to smile, to nod, and to offer polite greetings and farewells.
The rest of my time was my own.
I spent it lounging in the mansion's top-floor sunroom with its glass dome, reading, watching series, eating fruit, and observing the clouds and stars.
A thirty-thousand-dollar monthly salary, all expenses paid, for the sole job of existing.
It was a position I could have happily held until the day I died.
If not for the three stepsons.
First, there was Jonathan, the eldest at twenty-two, just out of college.
With his shock of red hair and a collection of at least ten ear piercings, he looked at me as if I were a piece of grimy gum stuck to the pristine Kinsley family rug.
Then there was Roman, the second son.
He was twenty years old and a nominal vice president at one of the Kinsley Group's tech subsidiaries.
Always in a tailored suit with gold-rimmed glasses, he would look at me with the cold appraisal one might reserve for a minority shareholder about to be forced out in a takeover.
The youngest was Connor, sixteen and a student at an international high school.
He bore the strongest resemblance to Nolan.
His eyes were particularly striking—wide and dewy, like a harmless deer's.
The first time we met, he timidly offered me a cookie he had baked himself.
It was so cloyingly sweet I nearly choked.
Yet, deep within the eyes of all three brothers lay the same unmistakable traits: wariness, assessment, and probing.
I understood my place perfectly.
In this mansion worth hundreds of millions, I was the outsider—the "Ms. Moore" on a monthly retainer, always one misstep away from being cast out.
Frankly, I didn't care.
They could live their lives, and I would live mine.
We could peacefully coexist without getting in each other's way.
That was, until the night Jonathan threw a "small" party.
By "small," I mean it involved over a hundred people.
The deafening music threatened to lift the roof off, and drinks were spilled everywhere.
I was on the top floor, watching my K-drama with noise-canceling headphones on, crying my eyes out over the storyline.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Jonathan stormed in, reeking of alcohol.