The Wrong Wife, page 12
He turned off one monitor, then the other, and let the room go almost dark. Outside, the storm began to tire.
“End of the week,” he said into the quiet, as if promising someone. Perhaps himself. Perhaps the men with brass in their hands. Perhaps the woman who slept with one eye open down the hall.
The kitchen of the Hunter mansion was a cathedral of stainless steel and granite. Bettany sat at the long island, her wheelchair pulled close, hands folded in her lap. The earthy grind of coffee from the machine burbling on the counter made her crave caffeine although she knew Melissa didn’t let it touch her lips.
The nurse stood at the refrigerator, dutiful in pale scrubs, blending ingredients into the stainless pitcher: kale, spinach, almond milk, a scoop of protein powder. The noise of the blender rose, harsh and grating, filling the silence.
On the counter beside Bettany sat a plate with a single croissant, golden and flaking, bought fresh that morning by the house staff. She stared at it, her stomach tightening with want.
The nurse set down the smoothie glass, green and chalky, beads of condensation already forming. “Here you are, Mrs. Hunter,” she said with a smile rehearsed to be soothing. “Your usual.”
Bettany’s gaze didn’t move to the glass. She kept it fixed on the croissant.
“I want that instead.”
The nurse blinked. “Pardon?”
“The pastry.” Bettany lifted a hand, the motion slow but deliberate. “I’d like that.”
The nurse hesitated. “Mrs. Hunter, Mr. Hunter was very clear about your diet. He said…”
“I’m sorry but I don’t care what he said.” Bettany’s voice was hoarse, but steady.
The nurse’s eyes flickered with discomfort, her hand tightening around the glass of smoothie. “It’s just… he wants you to recover as quickly as possible. The doctors recommended… ”
“The pastry,” Bettany repeated. “Not the smoothie.”
The nurse shifted, clearly torn between the authority of her employer and the fragile figure in front of her.
“You really should… I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Bettany pushed her palms flat against the counter and leaned forward, her eyes burning into the nurse’s. “I said I want the pastry and I promise you won’t get in trouble. I’m an adult and I can choose for myself.”
Her voice shook with the effort of force, but it rang louder than she’d expected in the cavernous kitchen.
At the far end of the island, a chair scraped lightly against tile. Bettany startled. She hadn’t realised anyone else was there. Drew. He’d been leaning back against the far wall, silent, arms folded, watching. Now he straightened, strolling over with deliberate slowness. His boots made a soft, deliberate sound against the stone floor.
His eyes flicked from Bettany to the croissant, then to the nurse still holding the smoothie.
“Well,” Drew said mildly, “Mrs. Hunter asked for the pastry.”
The nurse flushed, caught between them. “But Mr. Hunter… ”
“Isn’t here,” Drew cut in. “And she is. It’s fine.”
For a moment the nurse didn’t move. Then, reluctantly, she set the smoothie back on the counter, picked up the croissant with a napkin, and placed it carefully on a plate before Bettany.
“There,” she said, clipped but polite.
Bettany reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and broke off a piece. The buttery flake melted on her tongue. She closed her eyes as she chewed, the taste so ordinary yet so defiant it sent a jolt through her chest. When she opened them again, Drew was watching her with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The nurse lingered, still uneasy. “I’ll… leave the smoothie too,” she said at last. “In case you change your mind but if you don’t, please pour it away..”
She placed it beside the plate and stepped back.
“Thank you, and I will,” Bettany said, her voice level but laced with meaning.
The nurse nodded stiffly and busied herself at the sink, clearly eager to retreat from the moment.
Bettany ate another bite slowly, deliberately, letting the flakes scatter on the napkin. She looked across the counter at Drew.
“What?” she asked.
He shrugged, leaning a hip against the counter. “Just wondering how long it’ll take him to hear about this.”
Her jaw tightened. “Let him hear.”
The smirk deepened into something warmer, though fleeting. “That’s new.”
She looked down at the pastry again, suddenly conscious of her own hands, of the way they no longer shook quite so bad. “Maybe it is.”
The croissant wasn’t just food. It was a memory. A shard of herself, untainted by Brad’s rules, Brad’s smoothies, Brad’s perfect little cage.
She remembered being nineteen, broke and hungry in Los Angeles, buying a croissant with her last crumpled dollar at a corner bakery. Sitting on the curb with coffee she couldn’t afford, telling herself it was fine, that tomorrow she’d land a part, tomorrow she’d be somebody. It had tasted like hope then. And it tasted like rebellion now. And the memory, a real link to her past felt like joy.
Drew straightened, pushing off the counter. “Small victories,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Her eyes followed him as he moved to the doorway. “You think this is small?”
He paused, looking back. “No. I think it’s the start.”
Their eyes held a moment longer before he slipped out as the nurse returned with a cloth, wiping counters unnecessarily, clearly trying to erase the tension. Bettany ignored her, eating slowly, savouring each bite until only crumbs remained.
When she was done, she brushed the flakes into the napkin and pushed the smoothie deliberately to the far edge of the counter. The nurse’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing.
Bettany sat back in her chair, the sunlight warming her face through the glass. For the first time since the hospital, she felt the faintest flicker of control.
It wasn’t much. A pastry instead of a smoothie. But it was hers. Her choice. And that was enough to remind her she wasn’t just a pawn in Brad’s game. She was Bettany. Whoever that truly was, she was still here. And she wasn’t done yet.
15
The long mahogany table in the dining room glowed under the shimmer of the chandelier, every glass polished, every piece of silver cutlery aligned like soldiers. Candles flickered in the crystal holders, their flames mirrored in the black sheen of the windows. Outside, night pressed against the glass, the lawn lamps making faint halos in the mist.
Bettany sat at one end of the table, her posture rigid in the high-backed chair. A plate of delicately arranged salmon and asparagus lay before her, untouched. She mused on the table’s length, and the absurd expanse of linen between her and Brad seated at the head.
He cut into his steak with mechanical precision, the knife gliding through the meat, his movements so controlled it was as if each slice was an act of discipline rather than appetite. He chewed slowly, his eyes fixed on her as though measuring her against an invisible scale.
The chef had served the meal and retreated, leaving the two of them in an oppressive silence broken only by the clink of cutlery and the faint hiss of candle wicks.
Brad set down his knife deliberately, his gaze steady on her. “You’re quiet.”
Bettany forced herself to lift her fork, stab at the salmon, and set it back down again. Her throat was too tight to swallow.
“Nothing to say?” he asked. His voice was calm, but beneath it she could hear the storm within, the anger coiled and waiting.
She braced herself. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.” He leaned back, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “About the money.”
Her chest tightened. “Oh please. Not that again. You sound like you’re stuck on a loop.”
His smile was thin, brittle. “Don’t mock me.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m not but I told you, I don’t remember.”
“Then remember,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the room like broken glass. The candles flickered with the force of it. “You expect me to believe ten million dollars just disappeared? That my wife suddenly became a charity worker, handing out cash to beggars in the street?”
Her pulse hammered. She thought of Melissa’s warning: He will destroy you the moment he believes you’re useless or lying.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Maybe you should ask yourself why my laptop was wiped. Why there are no records. No messages. No notes. Why would I do that?”
Brad froze. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening around the stem of his wine glass.
“Interesting,” he said coldly. “Very interesting. That you’d think to ask that.”
The silence dragged. Bettany’s heart slammed, but she pressed on.
“And the ring,” she added, her voice lower now, trembling but deliberate. “Why would I leave my wedding ring at home the day of the accident? If we were really in love, a woman who lived to play her part at your side while you idolized me, like Charley says, why would I do that?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Brad’s face shifted. The mask he wore so carefully, of control, oozing affluence, portraying the charming husband, slipped in an instant. His mouth curled, his eyes darkened. He slammed the glass down, so hard red wine sloshed onto the white linen.
“Maybe it was symbolic and when you sped along the road you wanted to die,” he spat.
The words struck her like a blow.
“Maybe you were tired of the charade. Tired of pretending to be the perfect wife while sneaking around, while humiliating me with your secrets. Maybe you thought you’d end it yourself and make me clean up the mess, leaving a token reminder behind.”
His voice had risen, echoing against the walls, against the portraits that stared down from their gilded frames. His face twisted with rage, and for the first time she saw what Melissa had meant. He was unraveling.
Bettany recoiled, pressing back into the chair, her fingers digging into the arms. Fear jolted through her, raw and electric. But somewhere inside it, a shard of vindication glinted.
Melissa had been right, truthful, and in the midst of her fear it meant so much. She had someone to trust.
Brad leaned across the table, his knuckles pressed into the linen, his eyes boring into hers. “Or maybe,” he hissed, “you thought you could run away. Humiliate me. Leaving me here alone while you disappeared with everything I built. Is that it? Did you think you’d win?”
Her lips parted, but no words came. He straightened abruptly, shoving his chair back with a screech across the floor. The candles guttered in the draft of his movement.
“You’re a scheming bitch,” he said, his voice low now, almost conversational again but lined with venom. “Always were. You’d rather play games, invent dramas, and complain to your friends about me than face up to the truth. Without me, you are nothing.”
The air in the room seemed colder suddenly, the perfection of the table grotesque under the ugliness of his fury. Bettany sat frozen, her breath shallow. Inside, though, something shifted. The fear was still there, but so was the spark of clarity. She wasn’t imagining it. The danger was real. Brad’s mask was cracking, and beneath it was a man capable of anything.
She thought of Melissa’s voice over the phone, calm and ruthless: Play the role. Buy time. Survive.
Her hands unclenched slowly from the chair arms. She forced herself to lift her chin, though her heart still thudded.
“All I want,” she said softly, “is peace.”
Brad’s eyes narrowed, searching her face, weighing the words. Then, abruptly, he laughed. It was a harsh, joyless sound that made her skin crawl.
“Peace,” he repeated, as if the word itself was a joke. “You’ll have peace when I say you will.”
He snatched his napkin from the table, tossed it down beside his plate, and stalked out of the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall, heavy, purposeful, until they vanished into silence.
Bettany sat in the empty dining room, the wine stain blooming like blood across the tablecloth. Her body trembled, every nerve raw, but inside her fear she held onto that spark of vindication. The façade was gone. The danger was real. And now there was no doubt: Brad Hunter was a man who would rather kill his wife than lose control.
The house was silent except for the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional groan of the pipes settling for the evening. Bettany sat upright in bed, pillows stacked behind her, the bedside lamp casting a warm circle of light across the nightstand. Outside her window, the garden lay in shadow, the paths pale and in the moonlight.
On the tray beside her sat the remnants of a sedative tea the nurse had left, untouched. Her hands were restless, plucking at the duvet. The dining room scene replayed itself again and again: Brad’s voice rising, the wine splattering red across the linen, the snarl twisting his face. She shivered at the memory, her skin prickling with fear.
The phone beside her buzzed once, softly, vibrating against the wood. She snatched it up immediately, almost desperate.
Melissa’s voice came through, low and steady. “You okay?”
Bettany’s throat tightened. “He lost control tonight.”
“What happened?”
“We were at dinner. He… he demanded answers, the same old thing so in a panic to divert him I asked him about the laptop and the ring. I don’t even know why, it just slipped out. He… ” Her breath caught. “He said maybe I wanted to die. That I was humiliating him.”
There was silence on the line, but she could hear Melissa breathing, calm, measured.
Finally, Melissa said, “Good.”
Bettany blinked. “Good?”
“He showed you who he is,” Melissa replied. “That’s what I wanted you to see. The mask doesn’t stay on forever. Now you understand what you’re dealing with.”
Bettany’s chest rose and fell sharply. “I was terrified.”
“You should be,” Melissa said. “Fear keeps you alive. But now you know. That’s power.”
The words settled over her like a curse and a strange comfort all at once.
Bettany closed her eyes. “Melissa… I can’t keep this up much longer. He’s going to see through me soon, I know he is.”
“No,” Melissa said firmly. “He sees what he wants to see. He would never think in a million years that it’s not me sitting there because he’s too blinded by anger and arrogance. That’s all that matters.”
Her voice dropped lower, intimate. “This ends soon. Let me handle it. You just survive.”
The certainty in her tone made Bettany’s heart ache.
“But how?” Bettany whispered. “He’s losing his mind and his patience. He looks at me like he despises me.”
Melissa’s laugh was faint, humorless. “I think deep down he’s despised me for a long time. That’s why I built the box. That’s why I ran. He never loved me, he loved the game. Money. Control. Appearances. But the endgame’s mine.”
Bettany pressed the phone harder to her ear, desperate for the connection. “What if I break? What if I slip?”
“Then you’ll die,” Melissa said flatly.
The words chilled Bettany’s blood, but strangely, they steadied her too. Melissa wasn’t sugarcoating, wasn’t softening. She was arming her.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” Bettany whispered.
“Yes, you are,” Melissa said, her voice softer now. “You’ve already survived worse than this. Rejection, poverty. The shelter. Do you think Brad has any idea who you really are? He sees a weak, frightened woman. But I see someone who’s still standing, still breathing, even after everything.”
Tears burned Bettany’s eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” Melissa said.
Guilt surged up through Bettany’s chest. “Sometimes I think awful things and it makes me angry that you pulled me into this. You made me your double. You put me in his cage.”
“I did,” Melissa said without hesitation. “And I won’t pretend otherwise. But I’ll get you out. I owe you that.”
The honesty made Bettany’s throat tighten even more.
“Why?” Bettany whispered.
“Because we’re the same,” Melissa said. “Two women who’ve seen what Brad really is. Two women who know what it’s like to live under him. And because… ” She paused, then said, “I won’t let my ally die.”
Bettany gripped the duvet. The words sparked something inside her, small but fierce. She remembered the croissant in the kitchen earlier, her tiny rebellion. How it had tasted like herself. She remembered Drew’s smirk, the flicker of approval. And now Melissa’s voice, steady, commanding, almost protective. Maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought.
“I promise I’ll survive,” Bettany whispered, more to herself than to Melissa.
“Yes,” Melissa said. “That’s your only job. Survive. Let me do the rest.”
“I trust you,” she said softly, surprising herself.
There was a pause, then Melissa replied, “Good. Hold onto that.”
The line clicked, leaving loneliness in its place. Bettany lowered the phone slowly, stuffing in under the duvet. She wiped her damp cheeks with the heel of her hand, breathing shakily. But something inside had shifted. She wasn’t just a pawn anymore. She was part of something larger, an alliance, a pact forged in fear and necessity.
Brad thought she was broken, compliant. But Melissa saw something else. And for the first time, Bettany began to believe it too. She reached for the glass of water by the lamp, drank, and set it down. This wasn’t over and Melissa was right. Fear was power. And survival, for now, was victory.
She pulled the duvet up around her shoulders, turned off the lamp, and lay in the darkness, whispering the words like a vow. “I’ll survive.”
16
