The Wrong Wife, page 9
“And you’ve seen…” She hesitated. “What he’s like.”
Drew’s eyes shifted to hers, steady. “I’ve seen the charm he shows the world. And I’ve seen the other side.”
Her pulse quickened. “The other side?”
“He’s brilliant. Ambitious. Ruthless.” Drew’s voice lowered. “But volatile. You’ve seen that too, haven’t you?”
The memory of Brad’s face in the study flashed. His voice like steel, his accusations about the box, about lovers. She nodded faintly.
Drew bent a little, so his gaze met hers more directly. “Listen,” he said. “If you need someone to talk to, someone to say things to you can’t say to him, I’ll hear it. No judgment. No reports.”
The offer was careful, measured. It could be a trap, she knew. Brad might have told him to fish for confessions. Or Drew might mean it.
Bettany forced herself to breathe evenly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
They walked on. The nurse lingered out of earshot, still absorbed in her phone.
Bettany turned her head slightly. “You must think I’m… foolish.”
“Why?”
“For staying. For putting up with him.”
Drew’s jaw flexed. “You’re not foolish. You’re surviving and you need to get better before you do anything rash.”
The word struck her. Surviving. That was exactly what it felt like, every day, every breath.
She swallowed hard. “And you? Why do you stay?”
Drew’s eyes flicked to the house, then back to her. “Because walking away isn’t always an option. Not from Brad especially because I’m in his debt.”
The chill in his tone made her shiver again. They stopped near the pool. The water reflected the fading sky, rippling faintly in the breeze. Bettany stared into it, seeing her distorted reflection: the bandaged face, the hollow eyes.
“He’s watching me all the time isn’t he,” she whispered. “Every move. Every word.”
Drew’s voice was quiet. “That’s how he keeps control.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to ask the question burning in her chest. Was it you behind me that night? Were you the headlights chasing me? But fear sealed her mouth.
Instead, she said, “I don’t know who to trust.”
Drew’s gaze held hers. “Then trust yourself. Trust what you feel when you’re with people. Brad will twist your instincts. Don’t let him.”
They stood in silence, the air cooling quickly now. Crickets began to chirp from the hedges.
Drew straightened, his voice calm again. “It’s getting cold. Let’s get you inside.”
Bettany nodded, letting him guide the wheelchair back toward the terrace. As they approached the house, she caught his reflection in the glass doors: tall, solid, expression unreadable. Protector or pawn, she couldn’t tell. But she knew one thing, if she was going to survive, she had to let him believe she trusted him. Even if part of her wondered if he had been the one chasing her that day.
The guest suite was dark except for a single lamp glowing on the nightstand, its shade casting a soft cone of light over the bed. Beyond the heavy curtains the grounds lay silent, the gardens swallowed by the dark.
Bettany lay propped against the pillows, book open on her lap though her eyes hadn’t moved across the page in half an hour. Her mind was still on Drew and his careful words, the sympathy in his voice, the suggestion that Brad was volatile. She had wanted to believe him, but suspicion clung like damp clothes.
The buzz came suddenly. A faint vibration against the wood of the bedside table.
She jolted, her breath catching. The phone. Finally. It was the slim silver device Brad had given her after she’d asked politely, saying she’d like to keep in touch with Charley and maybe re-connect with her friends when she got her confidence back.
Now it lit up, screen glowing faintly in the dark. An unknown number, no name. Her pulse thudded. She reached for it, hesitating for a fraction of a second, then answered.
“Hello?” Her voice came out hoarse, barely audible.
A pause. Then a whisper, taut with urgency. “It’s me.”
Melissa. Bettany’s throat closed. Relief, fear, and something else, maybe happiness at hearing her voice, washed through her all at once.
Melissa continued quickly. “I don’t know how much time you have. But you need to listen. Just disconnect if he comes into the room, I’ll know why.”
Bettany pressed the phone hard to her ear, her free hand clutching the sheets. “I’m listening.”
“Brad’s situation is worse than I thought,” Melissa said, her voice sharp, stripped of the softness she used with the world. “The debts are suffocating him. He’s bleeding money into offshore accounts, trying to patch holes faster than they open. The gambling, the bribes, the failed investments and they’re all catching up.”
Bettany’s skin prickled. “He told me nothing.”
“Of course not. He never does. But I’ve been watching. He’s desperate. And desperate men…” Melissa’s voice lowered, grim. “They make choices. Ruthless ones.”
Bettany’s breath came shallow. “Choices like what?”
There was a pause, filled with static, and then Melissa spoke, each word weighted. “He may see you as expendable and if you’re gone, he can claim your life insurance.”
The words hit like a blow. Bettany’s grip tightened on the phone until her knuckles ached. “Expendable?”
“When he finally realizes he can’t get the money back and can’t stop the debts swallowing him he’ll look for someone to blame. Someone to sacrifice. And right now, that someone is you.”
Bettany shook her head, though Melissa couldn’t see it. “No. He wouldn’t… ”
Melissa cut in. “Don’t lie to yourself. The accident wasn’t random, Bettany. Someone chased you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was someone he hired or Drew. He was outside the mall that day, I saw him with my own eyes so my money’s on him. Either way, you were already a liability that day.”
The dream, the headlights in the mirror, the memory of the wheel jerking, the images burned fresh. Bettany pressed her bandaged hand to her chest, her breath hitching.
Melissa’s voice softened, but the steel remained. “That’s why you need to play the part. Flawlessly. Be the devoted wife he expects. Let him think you’re loyal, broken, dependent. Don’t challenge him. Don’t question. Just… smile when he asks you to. Nod when he talks about business. Give him nothing to suspect and stall him as long as you can.”
Bettany swallowed hard. “And you?”
“I’ll do what I should have done already,” Melissa said. “I’ll finish this. The files, the drives, the accounts, they’re still out there. I’ve hung a noose around his neck. But I need time.”
Bettany closed her eyes. While Melissa orchestrating things behind the scenes, Bettany was the one sitting under Brad’s gaze, the one carrying the risk of discovery.
“I don’t know if I can keep pretending,” she whispered. “He’s getting mean and desperate. It all makes sense now, after what you just told me.”
“You can,” Melissa said firmly. “Because you have no choice. And because you’re stronger than you think.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then Bettany asked, quietly: “I wish you’d never brought me into this.”
Melissa exhaled, faint and tired. “I’m so sorry Bettany, I wish I could turn back time but I just needed someone who could slip into my life for a few hours. Someone who wanted a chance to start over. I thought you’d be safe, Bettany. I thought if I pulled it off, you’d walk away with money, a new start, freedom.”
Bitterness flared. “Instead, I woke up in bandages, in his house, being called your name.”
“I know,” Melissa said softly. “I didn’t expect it to go wrong. But now it has to go right. We’re tied together whether we like it or not. Just give me forty-eight hours.”
Bettany pressed her hand to her temple, eyes stinging. “Okay, deal.”
Melissa sighed and then her voice came down the line, rushed now, urgent: “He’ll break soon. The debts are closing in but I have to time what I’m going to do just right. Hold on, Bettany. Just hold on. And remember, no one in that house is your friend. Not Brad. Not Charley. Maybe not even Drew.”
The line went dead.
Bettany sat in the glow of the lamp, the phone still pressed to her ear, her body rigid. She lowered the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen. Her hands trembled. Expendable. The word replayed in her head like a chant.
Brad’s smile in the study, the threat in his voice. Do you know what betrayal earns? Nothing. Not even a face.
Her pulse hammered. She shoved the phone deep under the covers so she could keep her lifeline close. She leaned back against the pillows, every nerve alight. Melissa’s voice still echoed: Be the wife he expects. Buy me time.
Could she do it? Could she live in this house, eat meals at his side, let him dress her like a doll in outfits she hated all while knowing he might be plotting to erase her?
The lamp cast her reflection faintly in the dark window. The bandaged woman staring back looked hollow, half-formed, a stranger. She whispered to that reflection, voice cracked and low. “Play the part. Just play the part.”
But even as she said it, her gut twisted. Because playing the part meant surrendering to Brad’s world. And sooner or later, pretending would not be enough.
10
The underground garage beneath Brad’s office tower was a concrete cavern, silent but for the echo of his shoes on the cement floor. Rows of parked cars gleamed under the dim fluorescent strips, their shadows stretching long across the painted lines. The air smelled of oil and damp, thick with the faint tang of exhaust.
Brad’s black SUV was parked in his reserved space near the elevators. He approached slowly, his pulse thudding, though not from exertion. He had been summoned here – not by text, not by email, but by a handwritten note slipped beneath his office door. No signature. Just a time, and a place: garage, 9 p.m.
The sort of message one did not ignore.
He scanned the shadows as he walked, his shoulders squared, his suit jacket tight across his chest. He hated this feeling, of being summoned like a servant, not the one in control.
Then he saw them. Two men leaning against a grey sedan parked near the far column. They weren’t dressed for business but in leather jackets, jeans and boots. One smoked, the ember flaring as he exhaled. The other toyed with a set of brass knuckles, turning them idly in his palm. Both straightened as Brad drew closer.
“Hunter,” the smoker said, voice low, roughened. “You’re late.”
Brad checked his watch—he wasn’t late. Not technically. But he knew better than to argue.
“I came as soon as I could,” he said smoothly, though his mouth was dry.
The man with the brass knuckles grinned. His teeth were small and sharp. “You always come when we call. That’s good.” He stepped forward, his boots loud against the concrete. “But calls cost money, Brad. Money you still owe.”
Brad kept his expression steady. “It’s temporary. A cash flow issue. You’ll be paid, no question about that.”
The smoker flicked ash to the ground. “We’ve heard that before. Yet here we are. Again.”
Brad forced himself to hold their gaze. He had dealt with men like these before, blood thirsty predators who scented weakness. He couldn’t let them see the sweat at his collar, the tremor in his hands.
“You’ll have it,” he said, sharper now. “A few days. I’ve got deals closing. Assets moving.”
The man with the brass knuckles tilted his head, studying him. “Deals. Assets. You sound like a banker.” He slipped the brass ring over his fingers, flexing his hand. “We’re not bankers, Brad. We don’t do payment plans. We do interest. And consequences.”
Brad’s stomach twisted, but he kept his voice level. “You’ll get every cent. With interest.”
The smoker stepped forward now, close enough that Brad caught the scent of stale tobacco and leather. He jabbed a finger against Brad’s chest. “We don’t want promises. We want money. By the end of the week. Or we start taking payment in other forms.”
The implication hung heavy. Brad’s jaw tightened. He forced a laugh, though it sounded brittle even to his ears.
“You think I’ve lasted this long by defaulting? You’ll get it.”
The man with the brass knuckles chuckled. “Nice speech. But we’re not your board of directors. We’re not impressed by your golf handicap or your charity dinners. You’re in our pocket, Hunter. Remember that.”
He raised his hand suddenly, quick as a whip, and slammed his fist brass knuckles and all into the concrete pillar beside Brad’s head. The crack echoed like a gunshot. Chips of cement sprayed.
Brad flinched despite himself, his pulse spiking.
The man leaned in, eyes glittering. “End of the week. Or next time, it’s not the pillar.”
The smoker dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out beneath his boot. Both men turned, casual, as though nothing had passed between them, and walked toward the stairwell. Their footsteps faded into the hollow garage.
Brad stood frozen, chest heaving, the echo still ringing in his ears. His hand rose to touch the rough cement where the brass had struck, flakes crumbling under his fingers. For a moment the façade cracked. His heart pounded, his throat ached with bile. Then he straightened, forcing air into his lungs, smoothing his tie, reclaiming the mask. They thought they had him cornered. They thought he was weak. But Brad Hunter did not bow.
Still, as he strode toward his car, the tremor in his hand betrayed him. He pulled the keys from his pocket, fumbling slightly before the car unlocked. He slid inside, the leather seat cool against his back, and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.
End of the week. He had less than five days. His mind raced, calculating, shifting numbers in invisible columns. Liquid assets were already stretched, offshore accounts bleeding out. The creditors’ demands collided with the reality of his books. He couldn’t juggle them much longer.
Unless – His jaw clenched. Melissa’s fortune was gone, somewhere, and all that remained was the life insurance policy.
He whispered her name aloud, almost without realizing. “Melissa.”
Her inheritance, her vineyard money, her investments were out of his reach. She had hidden it, moved it, shielded it behind walls even he hadn’t cracked. Unless he could force her to yield.
Or… his eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, his reflection pale in the dim light, unless she was gone. Life insurance. Payouts. Sympathy from the world. He muttered the numbers under his breath. Enough to clear the debts. Enough to rebuild. Enough to keep his lavish lifestyle alive.
Brad began to reason with himself that the Melissa in the house wasn’t the Melissa he had married. She was fractured, weaker, ugly, monstrously so. Unresponsive to his pressure but scared of him nonetheless. He saw it every time she flinched beneath his gaze. She could be made expendable if she didn’t give him what he needed. Maybe he should just get it over with anyway, save himself the trouble.
The thought twisted cold in his gut, and yet it steadied him. Brad Hunter was not a man who lost. If sacrifices had to be made, he would make them. If someone had to pay the price for his survival, so be it.
He started the engine, the low growl filling the silence of the garage. He pulled out slowly, headlights slicing through the shadows, the echo of tires bouncing off concrete walls.
As he ascended the ramp into the night, he whispered again, voice low, resolute. “By the end of the week.”
The city lights spread before him, glittering like coins on black velvet. For most, they were a view. For Brad, they were a promise. A reminder of what he owned, what he ruled. And what he would not lose.
Bettany lay in the king-sized bed, eyes closed, body stiff beneath the covers. She had drifted near sleep earlier, exhaustion pressing down on her, but the storm outside kept her alert. Every tap against the glass felt amplified, like warning fingers trying to alert her to a threat.
The nurse had been in half an hour ago, checking her medication, tucking the sheets tight. A murmured “Good night, Mrs. Hunter,” then the door closing, leaving her alone with her thoughts and fears.
She couldn’t sleep. She was waiting. For what, she didn’t know. The door clicked softly sometime after midnight. Bettany’s heart gave a hard lurch. She kept her breathing steady, shallow, pretending the rhythm of sleep. A shape filled the doorway, tall and broad. The faint glow from the hallway light outlined the figure – Brad.
He didn’t move at once. He stood there, silent, watching. The rain thickened against the glass, masking the faint creak of the door closing behind him. Bettany’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn’t stir. He crossed the room slowly, each step measured. The carpet muffled his footfalls, but she felt the shift of air, the presence looming closer.
He stopped beside the bed. She could smell his cologne. Seconds ticked. Then the mattress dipped slightly as he leaned in. She fought the instinct to flinch, to open her eyes. She imagined his gaze moving over her face, her bandages, the outline of her body beneath the covers. Her breath caught in her chest, and she forced it out slowly, evenly.
Brad’s hand brushed the edge of the sheet. He didn’t pull it back, but he let his fingers linger there, pressing faintly into the fabric.
Then he whispered, so low she almost thought she had imagined it. “You’re not the same.”
Her chest tightened.
Another pause, his breath close against her ear. “I don’t know what you’re hiding. And I can’t work out what it is about you… But I’ll find out. And when I do… I’m going to have to make a big decision.”
The sentence hung, unfinished, but the threat of it landed harder than a punch to the gut. The mattress released as he straightened. His footsteps retreated, deliberate, unhurried. The door clicked softly behind him.
Silence surged back, broken only by the rain hammering the windows. Bettany’s eyes flew open. The room swam in darkness, her chest heaving. She pressed her hands into the mattress, grounding herself.
