The Substitute Wife's Revenge

7

Rachel

The late morning sun beat down on me as I strode down the long driveway, my phone already in my hand as I pulled up a ride share app. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked, whether from anger or adrenaline, or both, I couldn't tell. The heat seemed to press against my skin like an accusation, making the air thick and hard to breathe.

I was about halfway down the drive when I heard the low growl of an engine behind me. Something in my chest tightened at the sound, but I refused to look back, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead on the iron gates that marked the boundary of the Knight estate. I didn't need to look back to know exactly who was coming down that driveway, and I knew with the kind of certainty that comes from years of disappointment that he would drive past. He always did. Vincent Knight didn't chase after anyone, least of all his unwanted wife.

But the car slowed down as it approached, the engine's rumble softening to a purr. Puzzled and surprised, my feet came to a stop and I stood there, shielding my eyes from the sun's glare with the hand holding my phone as I watched the silver BMW come to a stop in front of me. The passenger window rolled down with a quiet mechanical hum, exposing Vincent in the driver's seat, his expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses that reflected my own image back at me.

"Why didn’t you take one of the cars or ask Wicker to arrange for a driver?" Vincent's voice drifted out through the open window, measured and controlled in that way he had perfected over the years. I couldn't see his eyes because he'd put his sunglasses back on, but I could easily guess they'd be narrowed at me in displeasure, that slight crease forming between his brows that I'd learned to recognize as irritation.

I let my hand fall to my side and kept my gaze forward, focusing on a point somewhere beyond the car rather than meeting whatever look he was giving me. My voice came out flat and unbothered as I answered with a shrug, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "Because I choose to walk."

There was a pause, heavy and expectant, and I could feel his displeasure radiating from the car like heat waves rising from summer asphalt. The sensation prickled across my skin, setting goosebumps rising despite the warmth of the day, my body responding to the familiar tension even as my mind rebelled against it.

"Get in." The command was delivered in a quiet, but firm tone with just the right hint of steel that brooked no arguments, the sort of order that had always left me scrambling to obey in the past, afraid of courting his displeasure or making things worse between us. Even now, my body twitched involuntarily toward compliance, muscle memory nearly overriding my resolve, but I held back, mentally bracing myself against the instinct to submit. Instead I looked away, deliberately breaking whatever invisible hold he still had over me, straightened my shoulders with a determination I didn't entirely feel, and took a step forward, intent on continuing with my walk and leaving him behind.

"No, thanks." I replied, pleased at how firm yet uninterested I sounded. I quickly moved past the car, taking long strides to put some distance between us even as anxiety coiled tight in my stomach.

My footsteps faltered when I heard the car door open behind me, the sharp click of it echoing across the quiet morning, and then footsteps on gravel, quick and purposeful. Before I could react or pick up my pace, Vincent’s hand wrapped around my wrist, firm but not painful, his fingers cool against my overheated skin, and he was pulling me back toward the car with an ease that reminded me how futile resistance really was.

"Hey, let go of me!" I tried to wrench free, twisting against his grip, but his hold was unyielding, as immovable as everything else about him.

"Stop being stubborn," he muttered, his voice low and edged with exasperation as he guided me toward the passenger side with a certainty that suggested he'd never doubted for a moment that I would end up in that car.

"I said no—" The protest died on my lips as he opened the door and practically ushered me inside, one hand on my elbow steering me with practiced efficiency. And then, to my utter shock, as I bent to sit, his other hand rose to rest gently against the top of the door frame, shielding my head from hitting the edge in a gesture so careful it seemed to belong to a different man entirely.

The gesture was so unexpected, that it froze me for a heartbeat, allowing Vincent to maneuver me into the car without further struggle. Confusion swept through me, as well as nostalgia as my mind was swarmed with thoughts of how attentive and charming Vincent used to be before we got married.

And then he leaned in, and suddenly the space was filled with the scent of his cologne and I caught myself drawing in a deep breath, my stomach fluttering in sudden awareness of him. His face was close to mine, close enough that I could see my own reflection in his sunglasses, as he reached across to pull the seat belt over my lap. His fingers worked deftly, clicking it into place with a soft snap that seemed too loud in the charged silence between us.

I swallowed, my hands gripping the edges of the leather seat as I tried to ignore the crazy clamoring in my brain screaming at how close he was…his mouth was mere inches from mine and all I had to do was…

I gave myself a mental slap. What was wrong with me?

The seat belt snapped into place and Vincent straightened, his expression giving nothing away. He closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, while I kept mentally berating myself for acting like a foolish teenager.

The driver's door opened and Vincent slid in, adjusting his sunglasses back onto his face with one hand as he put the car in gear with the other, his movements smooth and controlled. The engine purred to life beneath us.

Neither of us spoke as he pulled away from the curb, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on, pressing against my lungs and making each breath feel deliberate.

I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the window, watching the world slide past, but I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, the way his hands rested on the wheel, the set of his jaw, the careful distance he maintained even in this confined space.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I stared out the window, watching the manicured lawns and iron gates blur past, but I couldn't focus on anything. The quiet was maddening, pressing against my ears until I thought I might scream.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I blurted out the first question that came to mind. "Why did you force me into your car?"

Vincent's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his hands steady on the wheel.

The silence continued for several long seconds, and I thought he might not answer at all.

Then, finally, he spoke. "You're a Knight. My wife." His tone was matter-of-fact, businesslike. "It would be unseemly for my wife to be seen walking around on foot. People will talk."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Of course. Of course that's why he'd done it. Not out of concern for me. Not because he cared whether I was safe or comfortable. But to preserve the Knight family image. To keep up appearances.

It shouldn't have hurt; I'd stopped expecting anything from Vincent a long time ago, but somehow it still did. The knowledge that even his smallest gestures were calculated, designed to protect his reputation rather than his wife, cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

I turned my face back to the window and said nothing more.

We drove for another few minutes before Vincent broke the silence. "Where am I taking you?"

I swallowed hard, my resolve hardening. "The hospital."

He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment, and I felt his gaze flicker to me briefly before returning to the road.

When we finally pulled up to the hospital entrance, I reached for the door handle, eager to escape the suffocating confines of the car. But Vincent's voice stopped me.

"Rachel."

I paused, not looking at him.

"Don't say or do anything that will upset Camilla," he said, his tone carrying a warning edge. "She's in a fragile state."

I didn't trust myself to speak. I didn't trust what might come out of my mouth if I did. So I simply pushed the door open and stepped out without a word, letting the door swing shut behind me.