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?

The Contract

“What’s the specific need?”

His jaw tightened. “My sister is contesting my father’s will. She claims I’m mentally unfit to manage the estate because I live in seclusion. If I can prove I’m leading a normal life with a wife and social connections, her case falls apart. Once the legal matter is resolved, we can quietly divorce.”

I should have walked out. It was insane. But I kept seeing Emma’s face.

“What would be expected of me?”

“You would have your own bedroom suite. No physical relationship. You’d need to attend some charity events, host a few dinners, be seen in town with me occasionally. You could visit your granddaughter as often as you like. In fact, I’d arrange for the best doctors to treat her here in Montana so she wouldn’t need to travel.”

“Why don’t you just hire someone? An actress?”

“Because this needs to be real. A legal marriage. My sister’s lawyers would tear apart anything fake.”

I sat in silence, my mind racing. $300,000. Emma’s life. One year of my life. “I need to think about it.”

“You have until tomorrow evening.” He pulled out a business card. “My lawyer’s number. Call him if you have questions about the contract. If you agree, we can have the marriage arranged within a week.”

I drove home in a daze. That night, I sat with Lisa at the hospital.

“Mom, I can’t ask you to do this,” Lisa said after I told her everything.

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“But to marry a stranger? Mom, what if he’s dangerous?”

“I’ve dealt with difficult men before. I’m not afraid.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I wasn’t about to tell my daughter I was terrified.

“And if this saves Emma, there has to be another way.”

But we both knew there wasn’t. The fundraiser had stalled. Lisa was barely making rent. I had no assets left to sell except my car, which wouldn’t get us anywhere close to what we needed.

I called the lawyer the next morning. The contract was ironclad: one-year marriage, specific duties outlined, payment schedule clear. If either party violated terms, the contract was void. There were confidentiality clauses, exit clauses, and protection for both parties.,

At 6 p.m., I called the number on Robert Blackwell’s card. “Mrs. Sullivan. I accept.”

A Marriage of Convenience

7 days later, I married Robert Blackwell in a quiet civil ceremony with just Helen and Robert’s lawyer as witnesses. I wore a simple blue dress. Robert wore another dark suit and those gloves.

He didn’t kiss me after we exchanged vows. He nodded, and that was that.

I moved into the estate that afternoon. Helen showed me to a suite of rooms on the second floor: bedroom, sitting room, and bathroom. Everything was beautiful and impersonal.

“Mr. Blackwell takes his meals at 8:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m.,” Helen explained. “He spends most of his time in his study on the third floor. He prefers not to be disturbed unless necessary.”

“Does he always wear gloves?”

Helen’s expression flickered. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“That’s not my place to say.”

The first week was surreal. Robert and I barely spoke. We’d eat breakfast together in silence, him reading the newspaper, me checking my phone for updates about Emma.

The treatment had started, funded by Robert’s check that cleared the same day as our wedding. The doctors were optimistic.

At dinner, we discussed the upcoming social events. There was a charity gala in 2 weeks, a dinner party at the mayor’s house the week after. Robert briefed me on names I’d need to know, families I’d need to remember. It felt like studying for an exam.

“You’ll need appropriate clothing,” he said one evening. “Helen will take you shopping tomorrow.”

“I have clothes.”

“Not for these events.” He said it without condescension, just a fact. “Send the bills to my accountant.”

Helen took me to boutiques I’d never entered in my life. We bought gowns, cocktail dresses, shoes, jewelry. The saleswoman fawned over “Mrs. Blackwell,” and I felt like an impostor.

The Gala

The first gala was terrifying. Robert picked me up at my suite, dressed in a tuxedo. He offered his arm and I took it, feeling the leather of his glove through my own arm.

“Just stay close,” he murmured as we entered the ballroom. “I’ll handle most of the conversation.”

But people wanted to talk to me. The mysterious Robert Blackwell had finally married, and everyone wanted to know about the lucky woman. I smiled, told them I’d been a nurse, that we’d met through mutual friends.

Robert stayed at my side, his hand occasionally touching the small of my back in a gesture that looked affectionate but felt choreographed.

“You did well,” he said in the car on the way home.

“Thank you.”

“Emma’s latest test results came back positive. Dr. Morrison called me this afternoon.”

I turned to stare at him. “You talked to her doctor?”

“I’m covering her treatment. I like to stay informed.”

“You could have told me.”

“I’m telling you now.” But his voice softened slightly. “The treatment is working, Margaret. She’s responding better than expected.”

I hadn’t expected him to care about the details. He was just fulfilling a contract, wasn’t he?