I'm a Substitute Husband

Chapter 10 – Echoes and Embers

Ethan’s POV

The house was too quiet.

After last night’s cryptic meeting at the pier, silence had become suffocating. Every shadow felt like it could contain a listening device. Every floorboard creak made my instincts twitch.

I stood in the corridor outside Isabella’s room, unsure whether to knock or keep walking.

There was something I hadn’t told her.

The woman at the pier—Selene—claimed she had proof that someone in the Lancaster family wasn’t just involved in Project D8-94… but had led it. Funded it. And used me for it.

But what twisted my gut the most wasn’t that revelation.

It was that she gave me a name.

Isabella’s mother.

That single fact felt like a betrayal I didn’t know how to bring up.

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could—

The door opened.

Isabella stood in a silk robe, her hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes still heavy with sleep—but alert the moment she saw me.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” she murmured.

“I didn’t,” I admitted.

She stepped aside silently, letting me in.

Her room smelled like lavender and old books. I watched as she moved gracefully across the room, pouring herself a glass of water before sitting on the window ledge.

“You met someone last night,” she said softly.

I blinked.

“How did you—?”

She looked over her shoulder. “You came in after 2 a.m. You smell like saltwater. Your clothes are different. You’re a terrible liar, Ethan.”

I sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. “You’re right.”

She didn’t push me. Just waited.

“A woman named Selene met me. She said she has ties to the D8-94 project. She claims she wants to bring it down… and the people behind it.”

Isabella turned fully now, setting her glass aside. “And?”

“She said your mother was one of the founders.”

Her eyes went wide. Her lips parted. “That’s not possible.”

“I didn’t believe it either,” I said quickly. “But she had evidence. Files. Recordings. Names.”

Isabella took a shaky breath. “My mother died when I was thirteen. She was a Lancaster, yes—but she hated everything about the corruption in our family. I remember her fighting with my father constantly about the business.”

“Then someone could be using her name,” I offered. “Or lying.”

“Or,” she whispered, “she wasn’t the person I thought she was.”

We sat in silence.

Then she stood and walked to me.

“I want to see it,” she said. “Everything Selene gave you.”

“She said she’d contact me again,” I replied. “But she warned—there’s a mole. Someone close.”

Isabella folded her arms. “Then we play smart.”

I looked up at her.

“I trust you,” I said.

Her eyes searched mine. “Do you?”

I stood, closing the space between us. “Yes.”

She swallowed, looking up. “Then prove it.”

I didn’t need to ask how.

I cupped her face gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re the first thing in this mess that’s felt real,” I whispered.

She leaned forward.

I kissed her.

It was slow—careful at first, then deepening, as though our silence was breaking into something we couldn’t control.

When we pulled apart, her forehead rested against mine.

“We don’t get to have this easy,” she whispered.

“I don’t want easy,” I said. “I want real.”

She nodded, then whispered, “Then let’s tear everything else down.”

The kiss lingered on my lips long after we pulled away.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside her room disappeared. There were no secrets, no lies, no shadows of the past—just her, and the warmth of her breath, and the way her eyes stayed closed a moment longer than they had to, like she was memorizing the feeling.

But then her phone rang.

Shrill, sudden. The real world slamming back in.

She sighed and reached for it on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

Her eyes flicked to me.

“Put it on speaker,” I said.

She nodded.

“Hello?”

A slight crackle. Then a voice. Female. Calm. Cold.

“I told him not to come with anyone else.”

Selene.

Isabella went rigid.

“This is Isabella Lancaster,” she said, steel in her voice. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“You’re bolder than your mother,” Selene said.

Isabella’s fingers curled around the phone. “Don’t talk about her unless you’re prepared to explain why you think she was part of that… nightmare.”

“I’ll explain everything. But not on a call. Meet me. Same place. Sunset.”

Then silence.

The call ended.

“Looks like we’re going together,” I said.

She nodded slowly. “If she’s lying, I’ll know.”

We arrived at the pier at exactly 5:57 p.m.

The sun was dipping low, casting a golden fire over the water. Selene was already there, leaning against a rusted railing, black coat flapping in the wind.

She turned slowly when she saw us, her green eyes unreadable.

“I expected you alone, Ethan,” she said.

I took Isabella’s hand deliberately. “We don’t do things separately anymore.”

Selene’s lips curled. “Cute.”

She tossed a manila folder onto the wooden bench beside her.

“Those are the records. Your mother’s involvement. It goes back two decades. She wasn’t just a supporter—she was the visionary behind Project D8-94. She believed human memory could be duplicated. Rewritten. Engineered.”

Isabella picked up the folder, flipping through the pages.

Lab notes. Photos. A blueprint for a cognitive transfer device with initials “C.L.” in the corner.

Isabella's face paled. “Claire Lancaster…”

“My mother was a scientist,” she whispered, stunned. “She worked in neurogenetics. I thought she left when she had me—gave it up for a family.”

Selene raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t. She used her family as the cover. Especially her daughter.”

Isabella clutched the folder to her chest.

“You’re saying I was her experiment?”

“No,” Selene said gently. “You were her weakness. And that’s why she died.”

The weight of those words hit harder than a slap.

“Who killed her?” I asked.

“Same people watching you now,” Selene said. “And you have about ten seconds to get back in your car before they realize I never intended to hand you over.”

I didn’t ask.

I grabbed Isabella’s hand, and we ran.

Back at the estate, the tension between us was different.

Not awkward. Not broken.

It was fire.

She stood by the window in her robe again, the manila folder clutched in her hand.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she said.

“Believe me,” I said. “That’s the only thing I’m sure of right now.”

She turned slowly, walking to me.

And without a word, she placed her hand on my chest.

I stepped forward, cupped her face, kissed her again—deeper this time. Less hesitant. More honest.

Clothes slipped off like secrets.

Touch by touch, kiss by kiss, we undressed not just bodies, but wounds, and fears, and trust issues.

She clung to me like I was the only anchor she had left. And maybe I was.

Later, her head rested on my chest, fingers trailing over a scar near my ribs.

“How many more of these are there?” she whispered.

“Enough to tell a story,” I said quietly.

“I want to know it all.”

“And I want to protect you from it.”

She looked up. “No more protecting. We do this together.”

My heart squeezed.

She wasn’t the cold heiress I married weeks ago.

She was fire wrapped in silk, courage laced with elegance, grief armored by sarcasm. And I wanted her in every way that mattered.

I kissed her forehead.

“Then let’s burn down every lie they’ve told us.”

By the time I dressed and left Isabella asleep in bed, the moon was high, cloaking the estate in silver-blue light. I should’ve felt calm. Instead, my instincts buzzed like an electric fence.

Something was wrong.

The moment I stepped into the hall, I heard it—a soft click. Like a lock being tampered with.

I moved silently, barefoot, toward the source.

Second floor. West wing.

A hallway no one used anymore.

The door to the old study—Isabella’s grandfather’s private library—was ajar.

I pressed myself to the wall, then peeked inside.

A figure moved in the shadows—dressed in black, gloved hands rifling through the desk drawers with expert precision. They knew what they were looking for.

I stepped inside quietly.

But one floorboard betrayed me.

The intruder froze. Then lunged toward the bookcase—and with a swift movement, pulled one of the books backward.

The wall clicked.

A section of the shelf slid open, revealing a narrow stone passage behind it.

By the time I reached it, the intruder was gone, the hidden door sealing shut.

I stood there in stunned silence.

Then Isabella’s voice echoed from the hallway behind me.

“Ethan?”

I turned.

She stood barefoot in her silk robe, eyes wide.

I walked over, took her hand, and placed it on the spine of the same book the intruder pulled.

“Do it,” I whispered.

She hesitated, then yanked it down.

The secret door creaked open.

Her breath caught. “I… I thought this was just a rumor.”

“It’s real,” I said. “And someone just used it to escape.”

We stepped inside, slowly.

The air grew colder. Dust choked the passage. Faint lights lined the narrow hall—still operational, powered by something deeper in the estate.

As we walked, the walls narrowed.

Then we reached it.

A small underground chamber.

And in the center, a chair with restraints.

Surveillance monitors.

Files. Hundreds.

Labeled: Memory Transfer Trials – Subject E13.

My knees almost buckled.

I reached for the nearest file, flipped it open.

Photos. Of me.

Wires in my scalp. Electrodes on my temples. Notes scribbled across the page.

"Excellent retention. Subject repeats triggered phrases. Ethical boundaries blurred."

My hands trembled.

This wasn’t just a lab.

It was where they built me.

Isabella was silent beside me, her face pale, eyes wide.

Then a screen flickered to life.

And a live feed appeared.

Of us. Right now.

Someone was watching.

No. Recording.

A mechanical voice buzzed through hidden speakers:

"He’s activated. Proceed to Phase Two."

My body froze.

“What does that mean?” Isabella asked, stepping closer.

I backed away.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t want to find out.

My fingers began twitching involuntarily.

“Isabella—if I hurt you, run.”

“No,” she said firmly, grabbing my face. “You’re not theirs. You’re mine.”

I grabbed the sides of my head. The pressure was rising. Like my mind was splitting down the middle.

Then a flash of memory hit me—

Flames. Screaming. A woman calling my name. Claire.

Then black.

I woke up on the floor.

My hands were bloody.

Isabella knelt over me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You came back,” she whispered. “You fought it.”

I looked around.

The monitors were shattered.

The chair was overturned.

The files… burned.

And above us—where the camera once blinked—a red light flashed.

It wasn’t over.

This was just the beginning.