The Substitute Wife's Revenge

6

Rachel

"Where have you been?" Vincent's tone was clipped, cold, the voice of a man issuing an order, not asking a question.

"Out," I said, my voice calm, even though my heart was pounding.

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "Out? That's all you have to say after everything? You vanish without a word after the stunt you pulled last night and just walk in here like nothing happened?"

I stared at him, stunned. "The stunt I pulled?"

"Yes, Rachel." He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. "Calling me in the middle of the night with some ridiculous story about being kidn*pped, begging for money, trying to guilt me into running back to you. You've reached a new low."

For a second, I couldn't breathe. Then, slowly, I let out a sound that might have been a laugh, though it tasted like ash. "You really think I was pretending? That I made that up?"

He said nothing, his silence louder than any accusation.

Something inside me snapped. The exhaustion, the grief, the humiliation—it all came crashing down at once. "You are unbelievable," I said quietly, though my voice trembled with rage. "I was tied to a chair in a filthy warehouse, terrified out of my mind, and you thought it was a game. You thought I was trying to get your attention."

I thrust my wrists toward him, the motion sharp and defiant. "Look at these! Do these look fake to you?"

Vincent's gaze dropped to my wrists, and for the first time since I'd walked through the door, something in his expression shifted. The angry certainty wavered and his eyes fixed on the raw, red marks encircling my skin, the bruises already darkening to ugly shades of purple and blue where the ropes had bitten into my flesh.

His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked near his temple. For one breathless moment, I thought I saw doubt flicker across his face, genuine doubt, the kind that made him question everything he'd been so sure of.

"Rachel..." His voice was quieter now, uncertain in a way I hadn't heard in years.

But then I reached into my bag and pulled out the brown envelope, thrusting it toward him. "I went to the courthouse this morning. All that's left is your signature."

His eyes snapped from my wrists to the envelope, and just like that, the moment shattered. The doubt vanished, replaced by something harder, colder. His expression closed off completely.

"What's that?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"Divorce papers," I said firmly. "I want a divorce, Vincent."

The silence that followed felt endless. He stared at the envelope, then at me, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. "Are you being serious right now, Rachel?"

"I'm dead serious. I've been living in delusion for the past few years, but not anymore. Staying married to you is a type of hell I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

He stared at me, his expression darkening with every word I spoke. "Don't paint yourself as some innocent victim, free of any blame. It takes two willing people to make a marriage work, in case you somehow forgot."

I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think I'm to blame for our marriage being the way it is? I gave up everything for you, Vincent. My career, my identity, everything. And it still wasn't enough because I could never be her."

Vincent's lips curved into a humorless smile. He moved past me and settled himself on the sofa, leaning back with studied casualness. "If I had wanted a trophy wife," he drawled, "I wouldn't have married you in the first place."

The words cut deep, leaving fresh wounds on my already bleeding heart.

He stood abruptly, scooping up his discarded jacket. "I don't have time for this."

Panic surged through me as he headed for the door. I hurried forward and grabbed his arm. "Wait—"

He stopped, his gaze falling to where my hand gripped his sleeve. "I have a lot of things to do today, Rachel." His voice was dismissive, as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Signing these papers will only take a minute," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Please, Vincent. Just sign them and I'll handle everything else myself."

He looked at me, his expression dark and forbidding. Then he reached out and took the envelope from my hand. For one wild, hopeful second, I thought he might actually do it.

Instead, he tossed it carelessly onto the coffee table.

"No," he said flatly. "You don't get off that easy, Rachel. Not after what you did to Camilla."

My heart sank. "Vincent—"

"You have a choice," he interrupted, his voice cold and final. "Apologize to Camilla for pushing her down those stairs, and I'll consider your request for a divorce. Or you can refuse." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over me. "But if you refuse, those papers stay exactly where they are."

"I didn't push her!" The words burst from me, desperate and furious. "I've told you a thousand times, Vincent, I didn't do it!"

"Wicker saw you," Vincent said, his tone brooking no argument. "He witnessed the entire thing. He heard you accusing Camilla of acting shamelessly toward me, and then he saw you push her."

I stared at him, rage and disbelief warring inside me. "Wicker is lying! Can't you see that? He's lying to protect—"

"Enough." Vincent's voice cut through my protests like a blade. "I'm done listening to your excuses."

He turned and walked toward the door, his stride confident and unhurried, as if he hadn't just shattered what little was left of my world.

"Vincent!" I called after him, my voice breaking.

He didn't look back.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed through the empty room. I stood frozen, staring at the divorce papers lying abandoned on the coffee table, my hands shaking with barely suppressed fury.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

A bitter, reckless resolve settled over me. If Vincent wanted me to confront Camilla, then that's exactly what I would do. But I wouldn't be going there to apologize. I would go there to finally tell that devious woman exactly what I thought of her.

*****

I paced my room like a caged animal, my feet wearing an invisible path into the carpet. Back and forth, back and forth, while my thoughts spiraled in a vicious cycle of rage and helplessness.

Vincent's ultimatum echoed in my head, each word a fresh stab of injustice. Apologize to Camilla. As if I were the villain in this twisted story. As if I had done something wrong.

My hands curled into fists at my sides. They wanted me to apologize to the woman who had stolen my husband, the woman who—along with Vincent—had caused me to lose my baby. The memory of that loss cut through me like a knife, sharp and unforgiving.

My child. Gone. And Vincent had the audacity to demand I grovel before her.

Never.

I would rather throw myself off a bridge than speak a single word of apology to that evil b***h.

The anger that had been simmering beneath my skin suddenly boiled over, hot and consuming. I stopped pacing mid-step, my jaw set with grim determination.

Fine. If Vincent wanted me to confront Camilla, then I would. But I wouldn't be asking for her forgiveness. I would tell that devious, manipulative woman exactly what I thought of her—every bitter truth I'd swallowed for far too long.

Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. The moment I stepped into the foyer, I spotted them.

Vincent stood near the entrance, speaking to Wicker in low tones. He looked refreshed now—showered and changed into a crisp white polo shirt and black pants, his damp hair swept back from his face. Sunglasses perched on his nose, hiding his eyes. The picture of casual elegance, as if our argument had never happened. As if nothing ever touched him.

I gritted my teeth and kept walking, my steps brisk and purposeful. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence.

"Rachel."

His voice stopped me in my tracks, commanding even when he said my name softly. I turned slowly, pinning him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Vincent pulled off his sunglasses, his dark eyes meeting mine with infuriating calm. "Where are you going?"

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Don't worry, Vincent," I said, my voice dripping sarcasm. "I'm not planning another fake k********g this time."

I turned on my heel and walked out, not waiting to see his reaction.