The Substitute Wife's Revenge

4

Rachel’s POV

I woke up abruptly.

My mouth was dry, my throat sore, and when I tried to move, I hissed as pain shot through my wrists and ankles. Rough ropes had rubbed the skin raw. Even worse, a rag stuffed into my mouth filled it with a bitter taste.

Why was I tied? What was happening? My thoughts were hazy and scattered. The fog in my head slowly cleared, and dread crept in until it consumed me.

Wide-eyed, I looked around. The dim light from a flickering bulb revealed cracked walls and dusty tarps covering old furniture. The air smelled of rust and mold. Wherever I was, it wasn’t the hospital anymore.

My heart began to race, pounding so hard it hurt. I was tied to a chair in the center of the room, gagged and helpless. Panic seized my chest.

A door creaked open behind me. Footsteps echoed against the concrete. My body went rigid. Two men appeared, their faces half-hidden by masks. One was tall and broad-shouldered. The other was shorter, lean, and had a cruel smile that made my skin crawl.

“She’s awake,” the tall one said.

“Took her long enough,” the shorter one replied. He crouched in front of me, close enough that I could smell alcohol on his breath. “Rachel, right? That’s your name?”

I could barely breathe, much less answer. Fear locked me in place.

He tilted his head, studying me with narrow, beady eyes. “You’re Vincent Thorne’s wife, aren’t you?”

I managed a small shake of my head. I didn’t know why they were asking, but something told me to lie. Maybe they’d think they had the wrong person and let me go.

Vincent… was he safe? Did they take him too?

“Don’t lie.” The tall one’s voice was sharp and cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone.

My phone.

He swiped the screen and held it up. My stomach turned to ice. On the lock screen was my favorite photo from our wedding, Vincent and I smiling at each other during our first dance, his hand resting on my waist, mine on his shoulder. It had always reminded me of how happy I thought we were.

Now it felt like a knife twisting in my chest.

“Still want to pretend you’re not her?” the tall man asked, his tone mocking. He drew a knife and pressed it against my throat. The cold steel made me whimper.

“I’ll give you one last chance,” he said. “Are you Rachel Thorne, Vincent Thorne’s wife?”

Tears streamed down my face as I nodded. He ripped the gag away, and I gasped for air, coughing.

“Yes,” I croaked. “I am.”

The two men exchanged a satisfied look. The tall one leaned down and began untying my wrists. “Good. Now listen carefully. Do what we tell you and you won’t get hurt.”

My hands were free at last. I rubbed my sore wrists, terrified of what would come next.

He tossed my phone toward me. “Call your husband. Tell him you’ve been kidn*pped. We want twenty million dollars within two hours, or he’ll be collecting your body.”

I stared at him, stunned. Twenty million? In two hours?

I let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “That’s not the problem,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “He won’t agree to your terms.”

The shorter man frowned. “You expect us to believe that? A man like him will pay anything for his wife.”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t care about me anymore. Please, let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Shut up!” the shorter one snapped.

I froze, my voice dying in my throat. The tall one grabbed a handful of my hair and pressed the knife harder against my neck.

“Do it,” he growled.

With shaking fingers, I unlocked the phone and dialed Vincent’s number. The call rang several times. Then his voice came through, cold and irritated.

“What is it?”

The kidnappers leaned closer, listening.

“Vincent,” I gasped, my voice trembling. “Please, help me. Some men took me. They want money. Please, I’m scared.”

There was silence. My pulse thudded painfully as I waited for his response.

Then he spoke again, his tone cutting through me like ice. “Is this some kind of joke? Or another one of your tricks? Haven’t you done enough?”

“It’s not a joke,” I cried. “Please, Vincent, they’ll hurt me if you don’t—”

“Enough! I’m sick of your drama,” he snapped. “You’ve already caused enough damage. First the accident, now this? You’re unbelievable. I should have you locked up in a psychiatric ward.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I’m not lying. Please, you have to believe me.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he said coldly. “Camilla needs me. I’m not wasting a single cent on someone as heartless as you.”

“Vincent, please—”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in disbelief. He had hung up.

The kidnappers exchanged confused glances.

“What the hell was that?” the shorter one demanded. “Did he just hang up on you?”

He snatched the phone from my hands and redialed, but Vincent didn’t answer. The man cursed and threw the phone on the floor. It shattered, the sound echoing through the room.

“What kind of husband does that?” he shouted. “What’s wrong with him?”

I swallowed hard. “I told you,” I murmured weakly. “He doesn’t care about me.”

The shorter man kicked the broken phone aside, his voice rising in frustration. “Then why are you still married to that monster?”

I didn’t answer. My heart felt hollow. I had run out of tears. The humiliation, the pain, the fear, all of it blended into a heavy numbness that left me barely able to breathe.

For a long time, the men argued in low, tense voices. The tall one wanted to try again with a different phone. The shorter man seemed to realize it would be pointless. They had heard the call; they knew Vincent wouldn’t pay.

Eventually, the shorter man won the argument. The tall one swore under his breath, then disappeared into another room. When he returned, he untied my ankles and slipped a plastic bag over my head. I thought that was it, that they were going to kill me.

But instead, they shoved me into the back of a van. After what felt like forever, the van stopped. The bag was pulled off, and cold night air hit my face.

“Walk that way,” the tall one said, pointing down a deserted road. “There’s a gas station a few miles ahead.”

The door slammed shut, and the van sped away, its red taillights fading into the darkness.

For a moment, I stood frozen. Then my legs gave way, and I fell to my knees, trembling. I had been kidn*pped. My life had been in danger. And Vincent, the man I once believed would protect me, had left me to die.

I’d lost our baby. The one little spark of hope left was gone too.

I wiped at my face, forcing myself to stand. My body ached from the ordeal of the past twenty four hours, my throat burned from the gag, and my mind was a blur of exhaustion and heartbreak. But I started walking.

Each step was heavy, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, lined by trees that loomed like dark silhouettes.

I kept walking. The cold bit into my skin, and my breaths came out in ragged puffs. My phone was broken, my wrists raw, my spirit cracked. Every few steps, I stumbled but forced myself upright again. I couldn’t stop. I had to reach safety, no matter how far it was.

When I finally saw the lights of the gas station, I almost cried in relief.