My CEO husband is a player and he thinks I am not his type

Episode 1: The Collateral Bride

My name is Freedom.

I’m 25 years old.

I work two jobs. Cashier by day, cleaner by night.

Chubby. Dark skinned. Broke.

“Too much,” that’s what people always said. Too loud. Too big. Too dark.

I never thought those words would follow me to my wedding day.

The Villa mansion smelled like money.

White roses, expensive perfume, and something cold I couldn’t name.

Chandeliers as big as cars hung from the ceiling. The floor was marble. My borrowed heels clicked too loud against it.

I stood at the bottom of the grand staircase in a white dress that wasn’t mine.

It was donated. The church ladies had altered it for me. The back was pinned with safety pins.

My curls were in a bun because the stylist said “it was more bridal.”

I looked like a cleaner who wandered into the wrong party.

And at the top of the stairs was him.

Tyson Villa.

The coldest CEO in the capital. Heir to Villa Financial Group.

Six foot two. Black suit tailored to his body. A glass of whiskey in one hand.

He didn’t look at me. Not really.

His jaw was tight. His eyes were on the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

The priest was already gone. The guests were already gone.

It was just us. And the contract.

Three hours ago, in front of 200 people, we said “I do.”

His company needed collateral for a 100 million dollar deal.

My father’s company owed the Villas a debt from 10 years ago. A debt that was going to put my little sister in the street.

So they chose me.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Villa,” the priest had said.

Tyson didn’t smile. He didn’t even squeeze my hand.

He signed the marriage certificate like he was signing a business deal.

Now we were alone.

He finally looked down at me. His eyes dragged over my dress, my pinned waist, my calloused hands.

And I saw it.

Disgust.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was low, smooth, and completely empty.

“I’m sorry. My shift ran late. The bus—”

“Don’t.” He cut me off and took another sip of whiskey. “Save it.”

I clutched the fabric of my dress. My hands were shaking.

“I know this wasn’t your choice,” I whispered. “But thank you for saving my family—”

“For buying you?” He finished for me. He came down one step. Then another.

Now he was standing in front of me. He smelled like whiskey and expensive cologne.

He was so tall I had to tilt my head back to see him.

Tyson Villa was beautiful in a cruel way. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. The kind of face that was on magazine covers with 3 different women every month.

A player. Everyone in the capital knew it.

He lifted one finger and tapped the safety pin on my back.

“This is what they gave me?” he asked no one. “Collateral.”

The word hit me like a slap.

Collateral. Not a wife. Not a person.

An object to pay a debt.

“My lawyers drew up the contract,” he continued. “One year. You stay out of my way. You don’t talk to the press. You don’t embarrass me. And in 12 months, we divorce. Clean.”

I nodded. Because what else could I do?

My little sister’s hospital bills were paid because of this marriage.

“My name is Freedom,” I said softly.

“I don’t care what your name is.”

The words knocked the air out of me.

He walked past me toward the living room.

“I have rules,” he said over his shoulder. “Rule one: separate rooms. Rule two: no touching. Rule three: no feelings.”

He turned around and looked at me one last time.

“And rule four, Freedom.”

He said my name like it tasted bad.

“You’re not my type.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

His footsteps echoed up the marble stairs until the mansion was silent again.

I stood there alone in my borrowed dress, in a house bigger than my entire neighborhood, married to a man who looked at me like I was a mistake.

The safety pin on my back dug into my skin.

I was 25. Working class. Chubby. Dark skinned.

And I was Mrs. Tyson Villa.

The collateral bride.

I told myself I could do this.

One year. That’s all.

I could survive being invisible.

But then I heard it.

Footsteps. Coming back down the stairs.

Fast. Angry.

Tyson stopped in front of me again. This time he was closer. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He stared at me. At my face. At my dress. At my hands that were still shaking from work.

For a second, something flickered in his expression. Something that wasn’t disgust.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it and his whole face went hard again.

“Nothing,” he said. “Don’t get any ideas, Freedom.”

He turned and walked away again.

But this time, before he disappeared up the stairs, he paused.

“You’re not my type,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“Remember that.”

The sound of the door closing upstairs was the only answer I got.

I was alone again.

In a wedding dress.

Married to the man who hated me.

And for the first time in my life, I wondered...

If being “not his type” was the worst thing that could happen to me.

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