I'm a Substitute Husband

Chapter 3: The Wound Beneath the Skin

Rain lashed against the manor’s windows like a thousand fingers drumming a warning. I stood beside Isabella’s bed, the antiseptic sting of bandages still fresh in my nostrils.

She was pale, but alive. Breathing, finally at rest, her arm wrapped in thick gauze.

But peace didn’t live here. Not in this house. Not in our bones.

After the chaos of the gala—Isabella taking a bullet meant for me—the lines between duty and desire had blurred into something unrecognizable. The doctors had said it was a clean wound, but that didn’t soothe the rage clawing beneath my skin.

The bullet had a serial number etched into it—just like the ones I found in the hidden lab under the Lancaster estate.

They weren’t just trying to kill me anymore. They were sending a message.

The doctors had left. Guards stationed at every entrance. And now, just the two of us. Alone. Again.

Isabella stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

“You stayed,” she said hoarsely.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

She tried to sit, winced, and fell back against the pillows.

“I’ve been shot before,” she muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. “How many times?”

“Twice.”

She tried to smile, but it faltered. The air between us throbbed with something unspoken. A truth too sharp for words.

I reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. She didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know who’s after us,” I said quietly. “But they’re close. And they know everything.”

She nodded. “Including us.”

Us.

There it was. A word I didn’t expect from her. Not now.

“What are we doing, Ethan?” she asked suddenly. “This deal. This marriage. This war. Is it all a lie?”

My hand dropped from her face.

“I wish I knew,” I said.

She looked away. Rain slid down the glass like tears.

“I never wanted you here,” she said. “You were just a placeholder. A mask for a dead man.”

I swallowed. “I know.”

“But you keep saving me,” she whispered.

“I can’t stop.”

Her eyes met mine. Something ancient passed between us—recognition. Regret. A memory unformed, maybe something from before the fire, before the secrets.

“I dreamed of you,” she said.

“What kind of dream?”

Her voice dropped. “You were burning. And I couldn’t reach you. I woke up screaming your name.”

I said nothing.

She reached for my hand and held it. Her grip was cold, trembling.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she said. “And I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Then don’t trust me,” I said. “Just feel this.”

I leaned down. Our lips met like a gasp. Desperate. Uncertain. Her hands clutched at my shirt, pulling me closer. I felt every heartbeat in her body against mine.

Then a crash.

The window shattered inward.

A shadow landed inside the room—dressed in black, gun raised.

I threw us both off the bed. Rolled. Grabbed the pistol from beneath the mattress. Fired.

One shot. Two.

The intruder fell, mask slipping from his face.

He looked like me.

Again.

Isabella stared in horror. “What the hell is happening?”

I kicked the gun from the man’s hand and tore off his shirt.

Tattooed on his shoulder: Subject E-06.

Another one.

“He’s one of them,” I said.

She was trembling now. “They’re replacing us. All of us.”

A sound echoed from the hallway—boots, shouts. The guards burst in.

I raised my hands. “He attacked first.”

They dragged the body away.

And then it was just us again.

Isabella sat trembling, the kiss now a distant echo. But her hand still clung to mine.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” she whispered.

“You’re not.”

“You might not be real.”

I paused. “Maybe not. But what I feel is.”

She pulled me down beside her and buried her face in my chest.

“I want you to be real,” she said. “Even if it’s a lie.”

I held her tighter.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

But outside, someone watched from the garden. A red lens blinked once—recording everything.

And far away, in a dimly lit control room, a voice whispered:

“Begin Phase Two. Make them fall in love.”