MY HOMELESS BILLIONAIRE HUSBAND

The moment my phone screen lit up, my hand trembled— the face in the photo perfectly matched the man in my living room. The homeless man. My husband of three years, Ajie. Identical down to the last feature. “Who are you?” My voice shook as I clutched the car keys in my palm. These keys were supposed to be the ceremonial token at today’s corporate handover, symbolizing his official inheritance of a billion-dollar empire. Now, they burned like red-hot iron, searing my skin. Ajie smiled, slowly loosening his tie. “Just realizing something’s off?” Three days ago, he was on his knees in the pouring rain, picking up my scattered documents, his soaked shirt clinging to his back as he whispered, “Yisha, just wait until I get through this, and I’ll give you the grandest wedding.” I believed him. I’d even secretly looked up quotes for a fireworks display. But this morning, the CFO called: “Ms. Yisha, Mr. Ajie’s fingerprints… don’t match the heir’s records in our system at all.” I rushed home and pulled out our marriage certificate—only to find the man in the photo didn’t have that scar on his left ear. But the man standing before me? He’d had it since the very first day we met. The doorbell rang. Outside stood the real Ajie—unkempt, reeking, clutching a faded childhood photograph. On the back, scribbled in old ink: "Me and my brother, age seven." Suddenly, lines of text flashed across my vision like live subtitles: [No way! Another case of body swap?!] [Brother replaced brother for the fortune while the real one became homeless?] [Don’t spoil it! I bet the girl screams in three seconds flat.] Before I could react, the “Ajie” inside spoke softly, stepping closer: “Darling, thinking of calling the police? But the whole world believes *he’s* insane—and you’re *my* wife.” His smile remained gentle, tender. “Or… would you like to hear why I’ve had to live as him all these years?”