His Fake Wife, Her Real Voice

The call came from my half-brother, Andrew, offering me a lifeline: marry a comatose heiress for $150,000 a month.

I, Ethan Clark, the black sheep of the family, agreed instantly, eager to escape my cramped apartment and dead-end life.

My new wife, Nicole Anderson, was a "Tech Princess" in a persistent vegetative state, surrounded by machines in a luxurious hospital suite.

I started talking to her, planning how to spend her money on classic cars and parties, feeling a smug satisfaction at my newfound fortune.

But then, a sharp, indignant voice echoed in my head: "You will do no such thing with my money, you lazy, gold-digging parasite."

It was Nicole. My comatose wife. And she was sassy.

Trapped in her own body, Nicole was telepathically directing me-scratching her back, giving me life advice, even coaching me through a viral video and a press conference that saved her company's stock.

I went from resentful caretaker to faithful prince in the public eye, even fending off my brother' s attempts to buy me out and my ex-girlfriend' s desperate grab for attention.

Suddenly, a paparazzo scandal at her bedside triggered something impossible.

Nicole sat bolt upright, her eyes blazing with rage, and in a terrifyingly clear voice, ordered everyone out.

She was awake.

But the cold, calculating CEO stared at me with no recognition, no sign of the fiery woman I'd known in my mind.

"Who are you?" she asked, and then: "I want a divorce."

How could the woman who saved me, who became my secret partner, look at me like a stranger?

What had happened to the Nicole who knew my heart, trapped within her own?

The call came from my half-brother, Andrew. His voice was smooth, like expensive whiskey, but I could hear the satisfaction underneath.

"Nicole Anderson' s jet went down. She' s alive, but in a coma. Persistent vegetative state, the doctors are saying."

I was in my cramped Austin apartment, the smell of stale pizza hanging in the air. On the screen, my character in a video game just died for the tenth time. I didn't care.

"So?" I asked, leaning back in my worn-out gamer chair.

"So, the wedding is off. Dad can' t have the heir to the Clark oil fortune marrying a vegetable."

Of course not. Andrew was the heir. Polished, perfect Andrew. He was supposed to marry Nicole, the "Tech Princess" of Anderson Innovations. It was a merger of old money and new tech, a deal sealed before they were even born.

"Tough break for you," I said, feeling a small, mean flicker of pleasure.

"Not for me," Andrew corrected, his voice dripping with condescension. "For you. The families still need to be joined. The pact must be honored."

A long silence stretched over the phone. I waited.

"They want you to marry her, Ethan."

I almost laughed. Me. Ethan Clark, the family' s dirty little secret. The son of a cocktail waitress my father had a brief, regrettable affair with. The guy they paid to stay out of the family photos.

"Why me?"

"Because you' re a Clark, technically. And because you' re disposable. You marry her, the contract is fulfilled. You get a nice payday, and everyone is happy."

He didn't say the last part, but it was implied. Everyone except maybe Nicole, but she wasn't in a position to complain.

"How nice a payday?" I asked.

"A significant share of both family fortunes, held in trust for you and Nicole. And a living allowance. $150,000 a month."

I muted the game. The digital screams of my dying character faded away. $150,000 a month. To do nothing. To sit by a bed. It wasn't a golden opportunity. It was a winning lottery ticket I didn't even have to buy.

"I' m in," I said, my voice flat, betraying none of the sudden, greedy hope pounding in my chest. "Send me the papers."

I was getting out of this dump.

The hospital suite was bigger than my entire apartment. It had panoramic views of the Austin skyline, a fully stocked mini-fridge with drinks I couldn't pronounce, and a couch made of leather so soft it felt like a cloud.

And in the center of it all, in a high-tech bed surrounded by beeping machines, was Nicole Anderson. My wife.

The nurses had just left. They called me Mr. Clark, their voices respectful. It was a new feeling.

I walked over to the bed. The media had called her Austin' s "Tech Princess," but they always photographed her in severe business suits, her expression cold and intimidating. Lying here, she just looked... small. Her face was pale, her dark hair fanned out on the white pillow. She was beautiful, in a fragile, untouchable way.

I pulled a chair to her bedside. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

"So," I said, talking to myself more than to her. "Nicole Anderson. We' re married. It' s a hell of a deal for me. A hundred and fifty grand a month. First thing I' m buying is a 1969 Mustang. Boss 429. Then maybe I' ll throw some parties. You won' t mind, right? Not like you' re using the money."

I smirked, feeling a little drunk on my good fortune.

You will do no such thing with my money, you lazy, gold-digging parasite.

The voice was sharp, clear, and full of indignation. It was inside my head.

I physically jumped, knocking my chair back. I looked around the empty room. The door was closed. No one was there.

I stared at Nicole. Her expression hadn't changed. She was perfectly still.

"Okay, Ethan," I muttered, pressing my palms against my eyes. "You' re losing it. The money is getting to you."

I took a deep breath and tried again, speaking to the still figure on the bed. "Alright, fine. No parties. But the car is non-negotiable. I' ve wanted one since I was a kid."

A gas-guzzling relic? Your taste is as underdeveloped as your work ethic. If you' re buying a car, it will be a new electric model from a company I have shares in.

The voice was back. It was definitely a woman' s voice. And it was definitely in my head.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. I leaned closer to Nicole, my eyes wide. "Nicole?" I whispered.

Who else would it be, you idiot? The ghost of your dead ambition? Now, are you going to just stand there gawking, or are you going to make yourself useful?

I could hear her. I could hear my comatose wife. And she was a real piece of work.