I Married A Reclusive Billionaire To Save My Granddaughter’s Life. He Always Wears Black Gloves And Never Lets Me Touch Him. Today I Found Out The Horrifying Truth Underneath. What Do I Do Now?

A Desperate Situation

I pressed my forehead against the cold hospital window, watching the snow fall over Billings. Each flake felt like another bill I couldn’t pay. Another day I was failing my granddaughter.

At 68 years old, I thought I’d done everything right. Raised my daughter after my husband died, worked 40 years as a nurse, saved what I could. But cancer doesn’t care about your plans.

“Grandma?” Emma’s weak voice pulled me back. I turned to see my 15-year-old granddaughter, pale as the sheets she lay on, trying to smile. The leukemia was winning, and we both knew it.

The experimental treatment that could save her life cost $300,000. I had $17,000 in savings.

“I’m here, sweetheart.” I walked back to her bed, taking her cold hand in mine. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” She closed her eyes. “Mom called. She’s trying to get more shifts at the diner, but… but it wouldn’t be enough.”

My daughter Lisa was already working two jobs. We’d started a fundraiser page that had raised $8,000 in 2 months. It was generous, but nowhere near what we needed. The doctors gave Emma 4 months, maybe six.,

After that, no amount of money would matter. “Don’t you worry about money,” I told her, smoothing her thin hair. “You just focus on getting strong.”

She fell asleep, and I stood there feeling older than my years. I’d spent my entire career saving lives, and now I couldn’t save the one that mattered most.

The Letter from the Recluse

The next morning, I dragged myself to my part-time job at the medical supply store. I’d retired 3 years ago but came back when Emma got sick. Every dollar helped.

Mrs. Chen, the owner, met me at the door with an odd expression. “Maggie, someone left this for you.”

She handed me a thick cream envelope with my name written in elegant script. Inside was a letter on expensive stationery.

Mrs. Margaret Sullivan, I understand you are in need of substantial funds for your granddaughter’s medical care. I have a proposition that may benefit us both. Please meet me at the Blackwell Estate, 4847 Riverside Road, tomorrow at 2 p.m. Come alone. This is a business matter, and I assure you it is legitimate. Robert Blackwell,

I stared at the name. Everyone in our small Montana town knew about Robert Blackwell. He’d lived in that massive estate on the hill for 20 years, barely seen by anyone.

Rumors swirled. Some said he was disfigured in an accident. Others claimed he was a criminal hiding from the law. The most common story was that he was just an eccentric millionaire who hated people.

“What does it say?” Mrs. Chen peered over my shoulder. “I think it’s a scam.” “That’s the Blackwell letterhead. That’s real.”

She touched the paper. “Maggie, what if it’s not? What if it wasn’t?” I couldn’t afford to ignore any possibility.

That afternoon I Googled Robert Blackwell. There wasn’t much. A few mentions of a surgeon by that name from the 1980s in Boston. Some charitable donations made anonymously. Property records showing he bought the estate in 2003. Nothing else.

The next day, I drove my old Honda up the winding road to the Blackwell estate. The mansion loomed against the gray sky, three stories of stone and windows. I almost turned around twice, but I kept seeing Emma’s pale face, and I kept driving.,

The Proposition

A woman in her 50s answered the door. “Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Helen, Mr. Blackwell’s housekeeper. Please come in.”

The interior was stunning but cold. Beautiful furniture, expensive art, fresh flowers, but it felt like a museum, not a home. Helen led me through hallways to a library with floor-to-ceiling books. A fire crackled in the fireplace.

“Mr. Blackwell will join you shortly. Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.”

She left and I waited. 5 minutes. 10. I was about to leave when I heard footsteps.

The man who entered was tall, well-dressed in a dark suit, probably mid-70s. But what struck me immediately was that he wore black leather gloves, even indoors.

His face was handsome for his age, dignified with steel gray hair and sharp blue eyes. But those eyes held something I recognized from my nursing years: deep pain, carefully hidden.

“Mrs. Sullivan, thank you for coming.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. Instead, he gestured to a chair. “Please sit.”

I sat. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ll be direct,” he said. “I need a wife. You need $300,000.”

“I’m proposing a marriage of convenience.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A legal marriage. One-year term. You would live here, attend certain social functions with me, and present as my wife to the outside world. In return, I will pay for your granddaughter’s treatment in full, plus a salary of $10,000 per month.”

“At the end of the year, we divorce amicably, and you leave with an additional lump sum of $50,000.”

“Why?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Why me?”

“You’re a retired nurse with an impeccable reputation. You’re recently widowed, so there’s no romantic complication. You’re respected in the community, which will make this arrangement appear legitimate. And most importantly, you’re desperate enough to consider it.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s honest.” He finally looked directly at me. “I don’t have time for romance, Mrs. Sullivan. I have a specific need for a wife, temporary as it may be. You have a specific need for money. This is a transaction.”,