The Substitute Wife's Revenge

5

Rachel

The gas station’s neon lights buzzed faintly in the early morning stillness. I stumbled through the glass doors, each step unsteady, my limbs stiff with exhaustion and pain. The place was deserted except for a bored-looking teenager slouched behind the counter, his attention glued to his phone. He barely glanced up as the bell above the door chimed.

My throat burned, every breath scraping like sandpaper. I made a beeline for the refrigerated section and grabbed the first bottle of water I could find. The cold plastic felt heavy in my trembling hand. Twisting off the cap, I drank greedily, the water spilling down my chin and soaking into my torn blouse, but I didn’t care. For the first time in hours, my body remembered what relief felt like.

When the bottle was empty, I walked to the counter, clutching it like an anchor. “Can I borrow your phone?” I asked, my voice rasping and uneven.

The teenager shrugged and pointed at the landline sitting on one end of the counter. My hands shook as I dialed the three digits that could pull me out of this nightmare. But as the first tone buzzed in my ear, Vincent’s voice echoed in my mind, cold and dismissive: You’re always exaggerating, Rachel. Always trying to get attention.

I hung up, trembling. Not the police. If they showed up here, if questions started flying, it would only make things worse and could likely draw unwanted media attention. Vincent would be furious if that happened…the Thorne’s valued their privacy above all else and if the media got hold of my story, it would cause a scandal which was all sorts of taboo. Plus, I had no strength left for another round of humiliation.

Instead, I simply called for a cab. By the time the car arrived, the first traces of dawn were softening the sky, pale streaks of gold and gray stretching across the horizon. I climbed into the back seat, curling into the corner as the city rolled by outside. Every muscle ached, every breath hurt, and yet I felt nothing. Nothing but a dull, endless ache that sat deep inside me, where life once grew.

Instinctively, my hand drifted to my stomach. The emptiness there hollowed me out all over again. The tears came silently this time, sliding down my cheeks unchecked as the memories crashed in waves, the doctor’s voice, telling me my baby had not made it. Grief tore through me, leaving me overwhelmed and gasping.

By the time the cab turned into the long drive leading to the Thorne estate, the sun had risen. Everything looked calm and untouched, the sprawling mansion bathed in a soft morning glow. There was no trace of panic, no sign that anyone had noticed my absence. No one waiting, no one searching.

A bitter laugh escaped me. So this was what my life had become, disposable, forgettable. The mistress of the house could vanish, nearly die, and it would make no difference to anyone. Instead, they’d probably think I’d killed myself out of spite.

I pushed through the front doors, half expecting someone to stop me, but the house was silent. The faint scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen. A maid passed by with a tray and froze for a second when she saw me, her eyes wide.

“Where is my…where’s Vincent?” I asked.

The maid shook her head, “He’s not home yet.” Her gaze took in my ragged state and I could see the speculation in her eyes but I ignored it and moved on.

Vincent wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t. He was probably still at the hospital with Camilla, watching over her, giving her all the love and attention he couldn’t be bothered to show his own wife.

The wife he’d left for dead.

I went upstairs, the weight of the house pressing down on me. My reflection in the mirror stopped me for a moment, hair tangled, skin pale, bruises blooming faintly along my arms. No wonder the maid had looked shocked when she first saw me.

The hot shower did little to help. The water stung my scraped skin, turning faintly pink as it swirled down the drain. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw, as if I could wash away the memory of rough hands, the dark warehouse, the stench of fear. But the images clung stubbornly to the corners of my mind, draining me of the last bits of my energy. By the time I was done showering, I could barely stand upright.

When I finally crawled into bed, the sheets felt too clean, too cold. I stared at the ceiling, every creak and sound sending a jolt of fear through my chest. My body might have been safe, but my mind was still trapped in that warehouse.

Sleep came only when exhaustion dragged me under. But even then, peace eluded me.

In my dream, I was back in the hospital, reaching out for a small, fragile shape wrapped in white. My fingers brushed soft skin before invisible hands tore it away.

“Please,” I begged, but no sound came out. The baby’s cry faded into silence, leaving me alone in a vast, empty room, covered in blood and sobbing. The nightmare left me shaking and drenched in sweat. Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of the warehouse, the ropes biting into my wrists, the sneer on the kidnapper’s face, and Vincent’s voice echoing in my ear as he ended the call.

“I’m not wasting a single cent on someone as heartless as you.”

That single moment had cut deeper than any wound they could have inflicted.

I gave up on sleep and sat up in bed, hugging my knees to my chest, my thoughts a chaotic blur of pain, shame, and disbelief. I had been kidn*pped, nearly killed, and not a single person had noticed my absence. No search parties. No calls. No panic. Just silence.

To Vincent, I was a burden, a heartless, conniving burden who was capable of all sorts of evil.

I swung my legs off the bed. The decision came suddenly but felt inevitable. I needed to end this nightmare once and for all. I could not go on pretending there was something left to save in this cursed marriage. It was time to take back control of my life.

The drive to the courthouse was a blur. I remembered standing at the counter, filling in my name, signing the forms, and holding the papers to my chest as if they were a lifeline.

When I returned to the Thorne estate, I spotted the familiar silver Aston Martin parked in its usual spot.

Vincent was home.

He was in the living room, standing by the window, a glass of brandy in hand. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His tie lay discarded on an armchair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the top buttons of his pale blue shirt were undone, revealing the toned chest I had once admired. His hair was tousled, his expression drawn, but the disarray only seemed to add to his effortless charm.

And that, more than anything, made something bitter rise in my chest. No matter how cruel he was, how cold or careless, nothing ever seemed to strip him of his allure.

His gaze lifted when he noticed me. The brief flicker of surprise quickly hardened into annoyance. “Where have you been?” His tone was clipped, cold

, the voice of a man issuing an order, not asking a question.