The Maid Steals My Billionaire Husband

On our tenth anniversary, Benjamin was working late, again. By now, I wasn't even surprised.

When had he started forgetting our special days? How long had it been since he last cared?

But my fever-clouded mind couldn't linger on those thoughts. The housemaid Benjamin hired had called out last minute—some urgent school matter, she'd said.

Strange how her absence unsettled me.

Alone in our sprawling villa, I lay burning up on the couch, my body limp, my skin scorching at 102°F. Helpless. Like a fish gasping on dry land.

Still, through sheer will, I dragged myself to the phone and dialed 911.

The moment I heard the sirens, I let my eyes shut in exhausted relief.

Then, in my fevered delirium, the truth unraveled before me—a truth so bizarre it couldn't be real.

I wasn't just Eleanor Turner. I was a character trapped inside a story. And the male lead? My own devastatingly handsome, filthy-rich husband, Benjamin Davis.

But the heroine?

Not me.

It was her—Mia Baker, our doe-eyed twenty-year-old housemaid.

Desperate for money to save her family, she'd taken the job. Then, under Benjamin's relentless pursuit, she'd reluctantly given in.

She swore she wanted to end things, guilt-ridden over me. Yet she never pushed him away. Not really.

In the end, Benjamin demanded a divorce. I refused, my bitterness festering until—in a moment of blind rage—I lashed out at Mia.

The accident took their unborn child.

After that, Benjamin forced the divorce anyway. Had me locked away in a psychiatric ward.

And Mia? She moved on. They both did.