His Fake Wife Is A Genius Hacker

Ava Peterson POV:

I watched my husband, the city's newest hero, lie to the entire country on live television.

On the massive screen that dominated our living room wall, FBI Special Agent Harrison Phelps stood at a podium, a dozen microphones aimed at his perfectly chiseled jaw. The flashes of cameras glinted off his dark, impeccably styled hair. He was being hailed as the "Guardian of D.C." for single-handedly thwarting a terrorist plot.

I sat on the cold leather sofa, my hand resting protectively on my still-flat stomach. The gesture was unconscious, a constant, secret reassurance. This baby, this tiny flicker of life, was the last thread holding my six-year marriage together. It had to be. I'd grown up in the splintered wreckage of a broken home; I would die before I let my own child suffer the same fate.

Harrison's face, the one I used to trace with my fingertips as he slept, looked like a stranger's. It was a mask of heroic humility, crafted for public consumption.

The camera zoomed in as he gave the press his signature, charmingly crooked smile. "I couldn't have done it without my team," he said, his voice smooth and confident. "And, of course, the unwavering support of my family, who stand behind me through it all."

The word "family" landed like a shard of glass in my throat. I let out a short, bitter laugh that was swallowed by the cavernous silence of the penthouse.

I clicked the remote, and Harrison vanished. The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic thirty floors below. I picked up my phone and scrolled through our photos, a gallery of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. There we were, two years ago, smiling on a sailboat, his arm wrapped tightly around me. It was the last time I'd seen that genuine smile directed at me.

A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, a familiar symptom of the early weeks of pregnancy. I pushed myself off the sofa and went to the kitchen for a glass of warm water. I would tell him tonight, I decided. I would tell him about the baby, and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to bring him back to me.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, the sound of a key in the front door lock made my heart leap into my throat. I stood up, smoothing down my sweater, a hopeful smile fixed on my face.

Harrison entered, bringing a gust of cold night air with him. He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it onto the rack without a glance in my direction.

He strode past me to the wet bar, the lines of his body rigid with a tension that had nothing to do with his long day. The clink of a heavy crystal tumbler on the marble countertop was the only sound. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and with a sharp, angry tug, ripped his tie loose from his collar.

I approached him cautiously, my voice soft. "Tough day? I saved you some dinner."

He downed half the whiskey in one swallow, his gaze fixed on the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Not hungry," he said, his voice flat and cold.

My hand, which I'd started to raise to touch his arm, froze in mid-air. The smile on my face felt brittle.

I took a deep breath, gathering the courage I'd been hoarding all day. "Harrison, I... we need to talk."

He finally turned to look at me, his blue eyes impatient. "Can't it wait? I need to unwind." The irritation in his tone was a familiar sting. He was an expert at making me feel like an interruption, a nuisance he was forced to tolerate.

My eyes burned, but I held my ground. "It's important. It's about us..."

My words were cut short by the vibration of his phone on the bar. The screen lit up.

Harrison's eyes flickered to the phone, and the icy mask he wore for me instantly melted. He snatched it up, his movements quick and eager.

Over his shoulder, I saw the caller ID. Not a name. Just a single, glowing letter.

*B.*

He answered, turning his back to me as he walked toward the window, shielding the conversation with his body. His voice dropped to a low murmur, but the tone was unmistakable. It was a sound I hadn't heard in years-a soft, urgent warmth that was so full of joy it physically hurt to hear. It was a voice he never, ever used with me.

I stood rooted to the spot, the blood turning to ice in my veins.

I couldn't make out the words, just fragments. "Finally... missed you... waiting."

Six years. In six years of marriage, he had never spoken to me with that kind of unguarded tenderness.

He hung up, a genuine smile lingering on his lips. When he turned and saw me still standing there, the smile vanished as if it had never been, replaced by his usual cool indifference.

He seemed to have already forgotten I'd wanted to talk. "You're still up?" he asked absently.

Before I could answer, his phone rang again. He answered it immediately, no longer bothering to hide. His voice, vibrant and alive, filled the silent room.

"Brooke? You're back?"

Ava Peterson POV:

Brooke.

The name echoed in the silent apartment, a confirmation of a truth I hadn't even known I was looking for. Brooke Shelton. The legend from his academy days. The woman he'd once called his "most important partner."

Harrison was already moving, his face alight with a joy that was like a physical blow. He strode toward the bedroom, pulling off his jacket as he went.

A sharp, cramping pain shot through my lower abdomen. I gasped, my hand flying to my stomach as I leaned against the sofa for support. The color drained from my face.

"Harrison," I called out, my voice a strained whisper. "I... my stomach hurts."

From the bedroom, I heard the sound of hangers sliding on a rail. "It's your period," he called back, his voice distracted. "Take an Advil." He was so used to dismissing my pain, so conditioned to see my needs as trivial inconveniences. Brooke's call was an event; my agony was a chore.

The pain intensified, a vicious, twisting knot. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. "No," I gasped, my knees threatening to buckle. "This is different. It really hurts."

He finally reappeared in the doorway, a fresh shirt in his hands. He looked at me, but his eyes were filled with annoyance, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum to get his attention.

"Ava, don't be so dramatic. I have a very important party tonight."

I clutched my stomach, each breath a struggle. "What party... is more important than me?"

He tucked the shirt into his pants, his movements efficient and detached. "It's a welcome-home party for Brooke. She just got back from a long-term overseas assignment. The whole department is going."

The last bit of warmth left my body. The phone call. His happiness. It was all for her. It had always been for her.

I stumbled forward and grabbed his arm, my nails digging into the crisp fabric of his shirt. My voice was a raw plea. "Take me to the hospital, Harrison. Please. Something is wrong."

The pain was a hot blade in my belly. I thought of the baby. A new, suffocating terror seized me.

He frowned, pulling his arm from my grasp with a sharp jerk. "Stop it, Ava. You know how much Brooke means to me."

He reached into his wallet, pulled out his black American Express card, and tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed with a sharp, insulting clatter.

The sound sliced through me. He was paying me off. Dismissing me like a problem that could be solved with money.

I stared at the card, then back at his cold, handsome face. My heart felt like it was tearing in two.

He checked his reflection in the dark television screen, adjusting his cuffs. His tone was final, the voice of a man giving an order, not speaking to his wife. He glanced at his watch. He was already late. He wouldn't waste another second on me.

My lips trembled, but no sound came out. The pain in my body and the agony in my soul were strangling me. I watched him grab his keys from the bowl by the door, ready to walk out, ready to leave me.

Desperation gave me a final surge of strength. "Our baby," I cried out, the words tearing from my throat. "Is our baby not more important than a party?"

His steps faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He didn't even turn around.

He just kept walking, leaving me with a single, devastatingly cold sentence.

The front door stood ajar, the cold night air seeping in and chilling me to the bone. I collapsed onto the floor, a wet warmth spreading beneath me.

I looked down in horror. On the light-colored fabric of my pants, a dark red stain was blooming, growing larger with every beat of my terrified heart.

The door was still open. But my calls for help were lost in the empty hallway.

A wave of dizziness washed over me as the pain and fear threatened to pull me under. But some primal instinct for survival fought back. I crawled toward the coffee table, my fingers fumbling for my phone.

With a trembling hand, I managed to dial 911. As I held the phone to my ear, waiting for a voice on the other end, my last conscious thought was a single, agonizing question.

How could he be so cruel?

"Call a car and go to the hospital yourself. Brooke's welcome party is important."

Ava Peterson POV:

His hand was on the doorknob, the final click of the lock about to seal my fate. With the last ounce of my strength, I pushed myself up onto my elbows.

"Harrison," I rasped, my voice barely audible over the roaring in my ears. "In your heart... our baby... or a party. Which one is more important?"

I was a pathetic heap on the floor, my hands pressed against my abdomen, the blood soaking into the expensive rug beneath me.

He stopped. He actually turned around. His face wasn't concerned or guilty. It was cold, annoyed, as if I had just committed the ultimate social faux pas by bleeding on his floor.

He looked down at me, his gaze as remote as a distant star. His eyes flickered over the bloodstain, and his brow furrowed, not with worry, but with a clear, unmistakable disgust. *This is a mess I'll have to have cleaned.*

I saw it all in that one look, but a tiny, pathetic part of me still clung to a sliver of hope.

Then he opened his mouth, and his voice, calm and steady, was laced with a poison that stopped my heart.

"Don't be so dramatic, Ava."

My breath hitched. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.

He continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "It's not a baby yet. It's just a clump of cells."

Time stopped.

A clump of cells.

The words sucked the very soul from my body, leaving behind an empty, freezing shell. The life I had cherished, the future I had prayed for, the tiny secret I had held so close to my heart-to him, it was nothing. Less than nothing.

In that single, brutal moment, every illusion I had ever built about this man, about this marriage, shattered into dust.

Having delivered his verdict, he seemed to feel the matter was settled. He turned away from me, his back straight and unforgiving. He adjusted his perfectly knotted tie, a small, elegant gesture that stood in hellish contrast to the scene of carnage at his feet.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw at his face. But I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

I just watched his back, burning the image into my memory. This was the real Harrison Phelps. Not the hero on TV, but the monster who could step over his dying wife and unborn child to attend a party.

He didn't look back. He didn't hesitate.

He opened the door and walked out into the night, on his way to her.

The latch clicked shut. The world went silent.

I lay on the cold floor, the life draining out of me. My vision blurred at the edges. My phone was still clutched in my hand, its screen a lonely beacon in the dim light.

With a final, desperate effort, I opened my contacts and sent my live location to the only other person in the world who might care. My brother, Dustin. But he was in another city, hours away. It was a futile gesture.

My fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled as I dialed 911 again, whispering my address to the operator before the phone slipped from my grasp.

I couldn't fight anymore. As the darkness closed in, my last thought wasn't of Harrison, or the baby, or the pain.

It was a quiet, cold realization.

So this is what it feels like when your heart dies.