My Sister Handpicked My Secret Billionaire Husband

I was born with a ‘let it be’ lifestyle. When my younger brother and sister would fight over the last bottle of milk, I’d just sit calmly on the side. Living was fine, starving was also fine. Later, my sister jumped ahead of me to pick a fiancé, leaving me with the newly bankrupt Clark Blackwood. I nodded and agreed. “Fine.” Marrying anyone was fine, as long as it was a person. Years passed, and Clark clawed his way back, becoming the envy of the city—a tech mogul worth billions. My sister came to me, hoping to trade husbands. She wanted to be the new mogul’s wife. I was about to nod and agree when Clark stepped forward and clamped a hand over my mouth. “Absolutely not.” I muffled, “But it’s fine.” Clark insisted, “No, Alice. It’s really not.”

1 As far back as I can remember, I’ve never fought for anything. When we were kids, my brother and sister would throw down for a single slice of pizza, and I’d just watch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it, I just felt that getting it was fine, but not getting it was also fine. It was just a slice of pizza, after all. My mother always called me an even-tempered child, and my father said my easygoing nature was almost heartbreaking. But they quickly realized my personality was actually quite convenient. Since I never argued, they could just give everything better to my siblings. Gradually, “heartbreaking” morphed into “of course.” The biggest, sunniest room went to my sister, Stacey; girls needed to be pampered. The most expensive tutoring went to my brother; boys needed to be groomed for success. As for me, I lived in the smallest, north-facing room and attended a decent but unremarkable state college. “Alice is the most sensible,” Mom would say every time. “She won’t mind.” And I truly didn’t. I rarely let any of it sink in. By the time I was twenty-three, I had graduated and landed a quiet job as an administrator in a generic company, drawing a modest salary. My life was steady, utterly unremarkable. Stacey, two years younger, had just returned from a European finishing school and was waiting at home for her grand debut. That evening, my parents called Stacey and me into the living room. Two thick dossiers were waiting on the coffee table. Dad cleared his throat. “You’re both at the marrying age. These two men are the most suitable candidates.” I picked up one file: Clark Blackwood, twenty-eight, heir to the Blackwood Group. The photo showed a man with sharp features and an undeniable, if somber, elegance. The note at the bottom was stark: Blackwood Group recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy reorganization. The other file was Preston Wells, only son of the old-money Wells family. Assets: Multibillion-dollar fortune. Stable, secure. “Stacey gets to choose first,” Mom said, her tone a forgone conclusion. Stacey didn’t even glance at Clark Blackwood’s file. She snatched up Preston Wells’s. “I’ll marry into Wells Holdings.” Then she turned to me, her eyes holding a mix of triumph and casual entitlement. “Alice can take Clark Blackwood. It’s not like you’re picky, right, Sis?” I looked at Clark’s photo—a strikingly handsome face, even if his future was suddenly uncertain—and nodded. “Fine.” Mom visibly relaxed. “Alice, you are such a good girl. Clark may be down on his luck, but he’s still a Blackwood. He’s more than suitable for you.” Dad agreed. “It’s settled then.” I closed the file and didn’t comment. Marrying anyone was fine. It was just life. Besides, the man in the picture was quite nice to look at. 2 The wedding planning started immediately. Stacey’s wedding was set for three months later: fifty tables, the city’s most exclusive five-star hotel, a society event. Mom was swamped every day, picking out the custom Vera Wang gown, the sapphire family heirloom jewelry, and coordinating the décor. My wedding was scheduled for one week after Stacey’s: ten tables, in a mid-range Italian restaurant. “The Blackwoods have been gutted by the bankruptcy,” Mom explained. “A simple reception will suffice.” I nodded. “Fine.” When it came to the dowry, Stacey’s things were loaded in trucks: designer bags, bespoke jewelry, curated antique pieces, a brand-new Escalade, and $80,000 in cash and securities. “We can’t have the Wells family looking down on us,” Mom instructed the movers. “The Reed family reputation must be upheld.” For me, Mom prepared two small suitcases. One for clothes, one for toiletries, and a simple, unadorned silver jewelry set. I looked at the meager luggage but said nothing. Mom, perhaps sensing the awkwardness, quickly rationalized. “Alice, you’re marrying a man who is broke. Clark has nothing right now. The fact that you’re marrying him at all is a blessing to him. He wouldn’t dare complain about a small dowry. He should be grateful.” Dad chimed in. “Your sister is different. The Wells are old money. We can’t let them think less of us. You understand, don’t you?” “I do.” Since childhood, everything Stacey got had to be the best because she was meant for the best. What I got was irrelevant because, ultimately, I didn’t care. Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. This logic had run our family for two decades, humming along like a perfectly calibrated, if cruel, machine. The night before my wedding, Stacey came to my tiny room and leaned against the doorframe, watching me fold clothes. “Don’t you feel cheated, Sis?” she asked. “Cheated out of what?” I folded a sweater, not looking up. “Marrying a broke man,” she laughed, a brittle sound. “I couldn’t handle it.” “You don’t have to handle it. You’re marrying Preston Wells.” “True,” she said, satisfied. “Don’t be too sad, though. I hear Clark Blackwood is decent enough. He won’t mistreat you. Anyway, with your personality, you’d be happy with anyone.” I finally looked up. “You’re right.” She seemed surprised by my easy agreement, found the conversation boring, shrugged, and walked away. I went back to packing, thinking about getting married tomorrow. Marrying a man I’d never spoken to, starting a completely unfamiliar life. It sounded… interesting. 3 It drizzled on my wedding day. Stacey’s ceremony a week earlier had been a blaze of flashbulbs and society chatter. I’d helped out, watching her in her custom gown, draped in the family sapphire, clinging to Preston Wells’s arm, a portrait of joy. For my wedding, the turnout was sparse. Clark’s side only had a few distant relatives. The Reed family claimed convenient illnesses and stayed home. Only a few sympathetic colleagues showed up. I wore the dress Mom had bought: an off-the-rack white sheath, no veil. The makeup artist, recommended by the restaurant owner, gave me a simple, minimal look. I looked in the mirror and decided I looked fine. The ceremony was brief. No officiant, no flower arrangements, no complicated ritual. Clark and I exchanged rings—simple silver bands, maybe a hundred dollars—in front of our handful of guests. This was the first time I’d seen Clark in person. He was taller than in the photo, and thinner. He wore a slightly faded, but meticulously clean, dark suit. His tie was perfectly knotted, his hair neatly combed. He looked constrained, yet was trying hard to maintain a dignified appearance. His eyes held a complex mix of apology and scrutiny as he looked at me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he put the ring on my finger. “I’m sorry you have to marry someone like me.” I looked at him. His eyes were kind, and even stripped of his fortune, he radiated an inherent class. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I don’t really care.” He blinked, then let out a low, slightly bitter laugh. The short ritual ended. We cut the small cake, toasted the guests, and collected the few envelopes of cash. Then Clark said, “Let’s go home.” Home. The word sounded alien. 4 Our new home was a cramped, walk-up apartment on the sixth floor of a building on the city’s industrial outskirts. Clark carried my two light suitcases, his footsteps heavy as he climbed the stairs. I followed, listening to his labored breathing. He looked back, his eyes full of apology. “I apologize for the state of things. I know this isn’t what you’re used to.” I looked around. “It’s good. It’s quiet.” He managed a small smile and opened the door. The apartment was small, maybe six hundred square feet, a one-bedroom. But it was spotless. Simple, clean furniture, neat curtains, and a freshly washed duvet drying on the balcony railing. “I spent all day yesterday cleaning,” he confessed, looking slightly vulnerable. “I hope you can manage here.” Gazing at the small space, I felt a flicker of warmth. “I’ll be fine.” He set the suitcases in the bedroom and then pulled out a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and placed them in my hand. “This is everything I have left.” “Four hundred dollars. I start doing delivery tomorrow. I’ll earn money, and I promise, I’ll take care of you.” I took the bills. They were wrinkled but organized, and they held the residual warmth of his palm. “Keep these,” I pushed the money back. “You’ll need them for gas and expenses when you’re out there hustling. What will you do without any cash?” I met his eyes openly, without a hint of judgment or disgust. “You don’t resent me?” he asked, his gaze holding a small, almost desperate hope. “No. Surviving is the only thing that matters.” A complex emotion flashed in his eyes, dissolving into a quiet sigh. “Alice, you are truly…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant. He probably thought I was easily fooled. That night, we had a simple dinner. He boiled ramen and added two eggs. “My cooking is terrible,” he warned. “You’ll have to make do.” “It’s good,” I insisted. I meant it. The simple, humble meal had a genuine, homemade flavor. Afterward, he went straight to the sink to do the dishes. I sat on the sofa, watching his broad back in the tiny kitchen, and a thought occurred to me: Maybe this life wouldn’t be so bad. When it was time for bed, he very politely offered to sleep on the sofa. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The bed is big enough. We can share.” I meant sleep. Just that. He froze for a long moment, then retreated to the sofa. “Let’s wait until you’ve settled in.” I lay in bed, and through the partially open door, I could see his tall frame curled up uncomfortably on the short sofa. An unfamiliar feeling stirred inside me. This man, Clark, might be better than I expected. 5 Married life was quiet. Clark did indeed start working as a delivery driver. He left at six every morning and didn’t return until ten at night. He fought the wind and the rain, always coming home exhausted. But every single day, he brought me a small gift. The first day was a small, palm-sized slice of cheesecake. The cream was slightly melted. “I passed a bakery,” he explained. “Remembered you said you liked sweets.” I loved them. The slice probably cost five dollars, but I ate it happily. The second day was a gourmet coffee, still warm. “Thought you might be thirsty.” The third day was a bag of artisanal cookies. The fourth day was a fresh fruit salad. None of it was expensive, but it was all exactly what I liked. I finally asked, “How did you know I like all this?” “A guess,” he smiled wearily. “You just look like someone who enjoys something sweet.” He was uncannily accurate. Seeing him struggle through the day, yet still remember to bring me these small things, warmed me. Still, the heir to the Blackwood Group, reduced to delivering food to support us. It was a dizzying twist of fate. I felt I should contribute. I couldn’t just be a burden. So, before my honeymoon was over, I went back to the office. On my first day, I was handed a termination letter. I was confused; I’d been a diligent employee. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The HR manager looked at me with complex pity. “Alice, think hard. Have you offended anyone recently?” I thought and thought, but I couldn’t pinpoint who I might have crossed. When I got home, Clark didn’t criticize me. He just brought out a pastry he’d bought and set it in front of me. “Eat,” he said gently. “Nothing is more important than eating.” What a truly good person. But I couldn’t be a leech on him; I had to prove my worth! I decided to cook him a meal. I had never stepped foot in the kitchen growing up. Although I wasn’t the favorite, my parents still had a housekeeper. I didn’t even know the basics of stirring a pot. But I figured, how hard could it be? I almost burned the building down. I was trying to sauté some spinach, but I used too much oil and misjudged the heat. A sudden burst of flames erupted from the pan. Panicked, I grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on the fire, which only made it bigger. Amidst the rolling smoke, I heard the door open. “Alice Reed!” Clark rushed in, turned off the burner, and smothered the fire with a wet towel. “What are you doing?!” “I… I wanted to make you dinner.” Tears streamed down my face from the smoke. He looked at the wreckage, then at me, and finally let out a helpless, almost hysterical sigh. “Are you hurt?” He checked my hands anxiously. “Did you burn yourself?” “No. But I promise, I’ll get it right next time.” He quickly stopped me. “No, please. Stay away from the kitchen. I’ll make sure there’s always food.” “But you’re so tired every day…” He cut me off. “I’m not tired. Just stay safe.” He cleaned the kitchen for me and then made me a bowl of ramen. It was the same simple broth, but with extra greens and two eggs. “Never do anything that dangerous again,” he instructed. I nodded. “Okay.” I was obedient. I truly never touched a pot or pan again. Perhaps because he knew I was useless, the food he started bringing home became more lavish. The convenience store sandwiches became refined takeout from actual restaurants, and the simple cakes turned into high-end patisserie specialties. Sometimes, he brought fruits, imported chocolate, or expensive deli items. My anxiety grew as I ate. Could a gig-economy driver really be making this much money? I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you pushing yourself too hard? Maybe you should take a day off.” He just smiled. “It’s no trouble. As long as you like it.” But I could see the fatigue. He was exhausted every night, sometimes with scrapes on his hands—presumably from rough handling or a bike crash. I felt terrible. He was working so hard for me, and I couldn’t help him at all. Then I remembered the jewelry. I had some things at my parents’ house—vintage pieces my grandmother had left me. If I could get them and sell them, maybe it would make his life easier.