The Stand-In Wife's Spectacular Comeback

Clarine pushed open the heavy oak door of the master bedroom. She took a deep breath, but the air in the Long Island estate always felt too thin. Her eyes scanned the empty, cavernous room. A bitter taste coated her tongue.

She walked to the vanity and stared at the mirror. The woman looking back wore a white silk nightgown. It was the exact style Evert demanded. The exact style Cora used to wear. Clarine's stomach churned with a sudden, violent wave of self-disgust.

Three years. For three years, she had let this marriage erase her. She was nothing but a ghost living in a dead woman's shadow.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the silk tie at her waist. She pulled it loose. The white fabric pooled at her feet. Underneath, she wore a black lace bra she had secretly custom-ordered. Tonight was their third anniversary. She needed to break the curse. She needed him to look at her-really look at her.

The low, guttural roar of an Aston Martin engine vibrated through the floorboards.

Clarine's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath hitched. She dug her fingernails into her palms, using the sharp sting to ground herself. She quickly smoothed her hair.

Heavy, measured footsteps echoed in the hallway. Each thud felt like a hammer striking her spine. The oxygen in the room vanished.

The door shoved open. Evert stepped inside. He brought the winter chill with him, mixed with the sharp scent of whiskey. His eyes were like shards of ice.

Clarine forced her legs to move. She walked toward him, reaching out to help him off with his suit jacket.

Evert shifted his weight, stepping sideways. Her hands grasped empty air.

His sharp gaze dropped to her chest. He saw the black lace. The muscle in his jaw feathered. A flash of pure disgust crossed his face.

"What is this?" His voice was a low, dangerous scrape. "You are a decoration, Clarine. A pacifier for my family. Do not attempt these pathetic seductions."

Tears burned the backs of Clarine's eyes. She blinked them away, her throat tight. "It's our third anniversary, Evert. I just wanted one normal night. One night as your actual wife."

"We have a prenuptial agreement." Evert cut her off. He reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a folded document, and tossed it onto the bed. "That is all we have."

Before Clarine could speak, a soft, melodic ringtone broke the silence.

It was Evert's private phone. Clarine's face drained of all color. Her blood ran cold.

Evert answered it. Instantly, the hard lines of his face softened. "Cherie? What's wrong? Calm down, I'm here." His voice was a warm blanket, a tone he had never once used with Clarine.

He listened for a few seconds, then ended the call. He turned his back to Clarine, his hand already on the doorknob.

"Put the white gown back on," Evert ordered without looking at her. "Stop ruining Cora's image."

The door clicked shut.

Clarine's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the thick carpet. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as silent, humiliating tears burned tracks down her cheeks.

She needed air. The bedroom walls were crushing her.

Clarine grabbed a heavy wool coat and slipped it on. She walked out of the main house, her bare feet hitting the freezing stone path leading to the remote glass greenhouse. The biting winter chill seeped through her soles, sending sharp needles of pain up her legs, but it was nothing compared to the freezing void in her chest. She needed a place to breathe, no matter how far or how cold.

Thunder cracked overhead. Rain lashed against the glass panels. Clarine sat on a wooden bench, shivering.

Suddenly, the backup lights in the greenhouse flickered twice. Then, total darkness.

Clarine stood up. The hair on her arms stood on end. Over the roar of the rain, she heard a sharp, distinct sound.

Glass shattering.

Two massive silhouettes stepped through the broken panel at the far end of the greenhouse. The harsh, blinding beam of a flashlight swept across the exotic plants.

Clarine slapped both hands over her mouth to trap her scream. Her lungs burned. She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling frantically behind a massive tropical palm.

"Where's the damn security panel?" a gruff voice cursed in the dark.

Heavy boots crunched on broken glass. They were walking straight toward her.

Clarine's hands shook violently as she pulled her phone from her coat pocket. The screen lit up. It felt like a beacon in the pitch black. She frantically mashed the brightness down to zero.

She pressed Evert's speed dial. Her heart beat so fast it blurred into a continuous, painful flutter in her chest. Please. Please pick up.

The phone rang. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"What now?" Evert's voice came through, laced with heavy irritation. Soft jazz music played in the background. He was at his Manhattan penthouse.

"Evert," Clarine whispered, her voice cracking with a desperate sob. "There are men in the greenhouse. They broke in. Please call the police."

A cold, cruel laugh echoed through the speaker. "Are you out of your mind? You're making up a home invasion for attention?"

"Is the stand-in playing hard to get again?" Cherie's high-pitched, breathy voice floated clearly through the receiver.

"Stop these hysterical games, Clarine," Evert snapped. "Do not call me again tonight."

The line went dead.

Clarine stared at the black screen. The dial tone buzzed in her ear. The flashlight beam swept inches over her head. The panic in her chest suddenly evaporated, replaced by a freezing, hollow void. He left her to die.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the greenhouse in a harsh, strobe-like flash.

Clarine's fingers closed around the cold, heavy steel of a pair of gardening shears left on the soil bench. She gripped the handles until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes locked onto the dark figure stepping around the palm tree.

Suddenly, the estate's backup generator kicked in. Blinding overhead lights flooded the greenhouse.

The two intruders froze, exposed in the glaring light.

"Drop it!"

Three estate security guards burst through the main doors, weapons drawn. They tackled the blinded men to the wet floor, pinning them down.

An hour later, Clarine sat on the living room sofa. She had a thick blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders. Her body was still shivering, but her face was entirely blank.

A police sergeant stood across from her, flipping his notepad shut. "Where is your husband, Mrs. Lynch?"

"He is with another woman," Clarine said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

The officers exchanged uncomfortable, pitying glances.

Just before dawn, the screech of tires echoed outside. Evert's Maybach stopped at the front steps. He strode through the front doors, his tie loosened, annoyance radiating off him in waves.

He stopped when he saw the mud, the broken glass on the rug, and the police officers. A flicker of shock crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it with a hard scowl.

"Mr. Lynch," the sergeant stepped forward, his tone clipped. "Your wife was nearly killed tonight. You should have been here."

Evert's jaw tightened. He walked the police to the door, his posture rigid. As soon as the door shut, he spun around to face Clarine.

He didn't check if she was hurt. He didn't ask if she was okay.

"You brought the police to my house?" Evert's voice was a harsh whip. "Do you have any idea what this will do to the Lynch family stock if it leaks?"

Clarine slowly lifted her head. She looked at the man she had loved for three years. The final, desperate ember of hope in her chest hissed and died.

That evening, the annual Lynch and Gill family charity gala took place at The Apex Club in Manhattan.

Clarine stood in the grand ballroom. Evert's styling team had forced her into a conservative, high-necked white gown. She felt like a porcelain doll on display.

Her stepmother, Marta, glided over with a crystal champagne flute in hand.

"Look at you," Marta sneered, her eyes raking over Clarine. "I heard you made a fool of yourself crying to the cops last night."

Gemma, Clarine's half-sister, smirked beside her. "Everyone knows Evert spent the whole night at Cherie's apartment. You're pathetic."

A group of wealthy socialites nearby turned their heads, whispering behind manicured hands.

Clarine straightened her spine. Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. She looked Marta dead in the eye, her voice trembling with a dark, reckless edge. "Keep talking, Marta. But do you really want to see what a woman with absolutely nothing left to lose will say? Push me, and I'll spill every dirty secret keeping the Gill family from bankruptcy. See what happens then."

Marta's smug smile vanished. Her face twisted into an ugly scowl. She shot Gemma a dark, venomous look.

A moment later, the ballroom doors opened. Cherie walked in, wearing a plunging, blood-red dress. She commanded the room as if she were the real Mrs. Lynch.

Cherie sauntered straight to Clarine. She held out a glass of pink champagne. "Clarine! I'm so sorry about the misunderstanding last night. Let's drink and make peace."

Clarine stared at the glass. She opened her mouth to refuse.

From across the room, Evert's gaze locked onto hers. He adjusted his cufflink-his signature warning. His eyes demanded she take the drink and avoid a public scene.

Clarine's chest tightened. She took the glass from Cherie and took a small sip.

Five minutes later, the room tilted.

A violent wave of dizziness hit Clarine's brain. The chandelier lights blurred into long, blinding streaks. Her stomach rolled.

She turned toward the hallway leading to the restrooms, intending to force herself to throw up. Her legs felt like lead. She stumbled.

Gemma was instantly at her side, gripping her arm like a vice. "Oh, my sister had too much to drink!" Gemma announced loudly to the staring guests. A nearby waiter stepped forward, looking concerned, but Gemma quickly waved him off with a tight smile. "She's having a severe panic attack. Evert asked me to take her up to his private suite immediately to avoid a scene." The waiter nodded and stepped back. "I'll take her upstairs to rest."

"Let go of me," Clarine slurred. Her tongue felt thick and useless.

She tried to shove Gemma away, but her muscles wouldn't obey. Gemma dragged her toward the private elevators.

As the elevator doors slid shut, Clarine's drooping eyes caught a glimpse of Marta. Her stepmother was raising a glass to Jax Kade, a notorious, sleazy Hollywood producer.

The elevator dinged at the top floor. Gemma hauled Clarine's limp body down the silent, thickly carpeted hallway.

They reached the suite at the end. Gemma fumbled with a keycard.

Clarine bit down hard on her own tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. The sudden spike of intense pain sent a jolt of adrenaline through her sluggish veins.

With a desperate burst of strength, Clarine violently shoved Gemma's chest.

Gemma shrieked as her high heels twisted. She crashed hard onto the floor. "You bitch!"

Clarine didn't look back. She ran. Her legs wobbled, but she threw her weight forward. She saw a heavy mahogany door slightly ajar-the Presidential Suite.

She threw herself inside, slammed the door shut, and hit the deadbolt just as Gemma's fists pounded against the wood outside.

The Presidential Suite was pitch black. Heavy blackout curtains sealed off the neon glow of Manhattan.

Clarine leaned against the locked door, gasping for air. The strange heat in her blood ignited. It spread like wildfire from her stomach to her fingertips. Her skin felt too tight, burning from the inside out.

She pushed off the door, blindly reaching for a light switch on the wall. Her hand struck something hard. A heavy ceramic vase tipped over and shattered against the marble entryway.

From the deep shadows of the bedroom, a low, ragged breath cut through the silence.

A massive silhouette moved toward her. The air shifted, thick with a predatory, aggressive heat.

Evert was burning alive. He had been drugged during a vicious corporate negotiation an hour ago and barely made it back to his long-term private suite. His mind was fractured, his vision completely gone.

Through the haze of the drug, a faint, unfamiliar sweetness-something soft and intoxicatingly clean-hit his senses.

He lunged forward. His large hands grabbed Clarine's shoulders, slamming her back against the wall.

The scorching heat of his body burned through her thin white dress. Clarine let out a sharp, trembling gasp.

She tried to scream, to fight him off, but the drug turned her panic into a soft, helpless whimper. Her brain short-circuited.

The sound of her voice snapped the last thread of Evert's control. He swept her off her feet, carrying her into the dark bedroom and dropping her onto the massive king bed.

In the absolute darkness, fueled by the hallucinogenic drugs, neither recognized the other. They were just two bodies burning in the dark.

Outside, a violent thunderstorm rolled over the city, drowning out the muffled sounds inside the suite.

At four in the morning, the biological shock of exhaustion jolted Clarine awake.

Her body ached. Every muscle felt bruised and torn. She blinked into the darkness. A faint flash of lightning slipped through a crack in the curtains.

It illuminated the broad, muscular back of a man sleeping next to her.

The memories of the night crashed into her skull. The pink champagne. Gemma dragging her. Marta toasting with Jax Kade.

A wave of pure, suffocating terror crushed her chest. She thought she had escaped Jax. She thought she was safe. Who is this?

Bile rose in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop a sob. Ignoring the tearing pain between her thighs, she slid off the edge of the bed.

She found her torn white dress on the floor and pulled it over her head. She didn't bother looking for her shoes. She unlocked the door and fled the suite, running down the hallway like a hunted animal.

Ten minutes after Clarine disappeared into the elevator, another set of doors opened.

Cherie stepped onto the top floor, her heels clicking softly. She had come to find Evert, hoping to play the devoted caretaker.

She noticed the door to the Presidential Suite was slightly open.

Cherie pushed it wide. The heavy scent of sex and sweat hit her instantly. She tiptoed into the bedroom and saw Evert's sleeping form tangled in the sheets.

A wicked, triumphant smile stretched across Cherie's face. She quickly unzipped her red dress, letting it fall to the floor, and slipped under the covers next to him.

Clarine moved like a ghost through the halls of the Long Island estate. She bypassed the staff and locked herself inside the master bathroom.

She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. She stood under the scalding water, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it turned raw and red. She scrubbed until her arms shook, trying to wash away the phantom touches of the stranger.

She stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror.

Her reflection made her sick. Her pale neck and collarbones were covered in dark, angry purple bruises.

Clarine slid down the bathroom wall, pulling her knees to her chest. The tears finally broke. She cried until her throat was raw, the sound drowned out by the running water.

When the tears stopped, her eyes changed. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a cold, dead emptiness.

She dried off and pulled on a thick, black turtleneck sweater, hiding every inch of her skin. She needed to know exactly who ruined her.

Clarine walked out of the bedroom and headed toward the stairs to get a glass of water. As she reached the landing, a voice drifted up from the living room.

She stopped and pressed herself against the wall, hiding in the shadows.

Marta was sitting on the sofa, a phone pressed to her ear.

"Yes, it went perfectly," Marta laughed, her voice dripping with venom. "Gemma lost her in the hallway, but Jax caught up to her in the penthouse. That little stand-in is completely ruined now."