The Substitute Wife's Sweet Escape

For three years, I was a substitute for my twin sister, married to the powerful Donovan Blackwood. It was a contract. My payment for enduring his coldness was fifty million dollars and my freedom.

But my husband had a woman he truly loved, Chloe Sanders.

At her request, he pushed me into the freezing ocean.

When we both fell from a yacht, he screamed for the rescuers to save her first, leaving me to drown.

He even traded me to a torturer to get her back.

Through it all, I endured. Not for love, but for the money. He mistook my silence for devotion, my endurance for love.

He never realized that every cruel act didn't break my heart, it just ticked down the clock on my sentence.

Now, the contract is over. The fifty million dollars is in my account.

I left the wedding ring on his pillow and walked away without a backward glance.

I thought it was the end. But I underestimated his obsession. He's just now realizing the truth, and he's coming for me. He thinks he can apologize. He thinks he can get me back.

Chapter 1

The phone rang, a shrill sound in the quiet library of the Blackwood mansion. It was my mother. Her voice was thin and tight over the line.

"Ava, it's almost time. The three years are up tomorrow."

I closed the heavy book in front of me, the scent of old paper and leather filling my lungs. Three years. It felt like a lifetime.

"The trust fund is ready," she continued, her voice gaining a greedy edge. "Fifty million dollars. Once the contract is officially terminated, it's all yours. You'll finally be free."

Free. The word echoed in the vast, empty room. It was the only thing that had kept me going.

"I know," I said. My voice was calm, a still lake on a windless day. There was nothing left inside me to stir.

My gaze fell on the wedding band on my finger. It was a cold, heavy circle of platinum, studded with diamonds I never looked at too closely. It wasn't mine. Nothing in this house was. Not the name, not the life, and certainly not the man who was legally my husband.

I was a ghost. A substitute.

Three years ago, my twin sister, Isabella, was supposed to marry Donovan Blackwood. It was a merger of families, a deal sealed with a wedding vow. But Isabella, who always craved a different kind of freedom, ran away the night before the wedding.

My family was thrown into chaos. The Millers couldn't afford to lose the Blackwood alliance. So they came to me.

"You have to do it, Ava," my father had said, his face pale with panic. "You look exactly like her. No one will know."

"It's only for three years," my mother had added, her eyes avoiding mine. "There's a trust fund attached to the contract. Fifty million dollars. It becomes yours when the three years are up. Think of it, Ava. Your own money. Complete independence."

My grandfather, the patriarch of the family, gave me the final warning. "Don't get any ideas, girl. This is a job. Donovan Blackwood is not a man to be trifled with. He had a woman he loved, Chloe Sanders. Our deal forced them apart. He will never love you. He will probably hate you. Just do your part, play the role of Isabella, and get out with the money."

He was right. Donovan didn't just ignore me; he treated me like a stain on his perfect world. My life in the Blackwood mansion was a study in silence and invisibility. I lived in a separate wing. We ate at opposite ends of a comically long dining table, if we ate together at all. I was Mrs. Blackwood on paper, but in reality, I was just the placeholder.

I had tried, in the beginning. I learned his favorite foods, the way he liked his coffee, the precise temperature he preferred for his study. I thought if I could just be useful, maybe the coldness in his eyes would thaw.

For a brief period, it seemed to work. He started acknowledging my presence with a nod. Once, he even said, "Thank you," when I brought him a file he'd forgotten. A tiny flicker of hope ignited within me. Maybe, just maybe, this could be more than a transaction.

Then Chloe Sanders came back.

She returned to the city, a damsel in distress, and all of Donovan's attention, which was barely on me to begin with, snapped back to her. My existence was erased once more. The fragile peace shattered, and we were back to square one.

But it didn't hurt. Not really. Because I had a secret that kept me safe, a shield around my heart. I never loved him. Not for a single second.

All of this-the silent meals, the public smiles, the lonely nights-it was all just a job. A long, difficult, soul-crushing job with a fifty-million-dollar payday. That money was my real goal. It was my escape from a childhood where I was always second best, the shadow to Isabella's sun. The quiet one, the plain one, the one they never noticed unless they needed something. That money meant I would never have to depend on anyone ever again.

The memory of the rain lashing against the windows was vivid. It was a year ago, a storm raging outside, mirroring the one that was always brewing inside this house. My phone had rung. It was Donovan.

"Chloe is sick. She has a fever and needs her prescription. The pharmacy is about to close. Go get it and take it to her." His voice was a whip crack, sharp and unforgiving.

I didn't argue. I just put on a coat, took the keys to one of the lesser cars in the garage, and drove into the storm. The wind and rain were so violent I could barely see the road. I got the medicine and drove to Chloe's penthouse.

The door was unlocked. I was about to go in when I heard voices from the living room. Donovan was there, along with one of his friends.

"You're really going to keep that woman in your house?" his friend asked. "After everything? Chloe is right here. Why don't you just end it?"

Donovan's reply was a shard of ice. "The contract is almost up. It's complicated. But make no mistake, if I had to choose between her and Chloe, if one of them was drowning, I'd save Chloe. Every single time."

I stood there, soaked to the bone, the rain dripping from my hair onto the plush carpet. The medicine bag in my hand felt impossibly heavy.

I walked into the room. Their conversation stopped. Donovan looked at me, my drenched and pathetic state. For a fleeting moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes-was it surprise? Concern?

It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You took long enough," he said, his voice cold again.

I handed him the bag. "Give this to Miss Sanders," he ordered, not even looking at me. I walked over to the couch where Chloe lay, looking pale and fragile, and placed the bag on the table.

I returned to the mansion, stripped off my wet clothes, and stood under a hot shower, trying to wash away the chill. But it wasn't the rain that had frozen me. It was the clarity.

Donovan walked into my room later that night, his face a mask of fury. He smelled of whiskey and Chloe's perfume.

"What did you say to her?" he snarled, grabbing my arm.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me! She's hysterical. She said you threatened her!"

He pushed me. Hard. I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. I fell, my head hitting the corner of the staircase with a sickening crack. Pain exploded behind my eyes.

"You pushed me," I whispered, tasting blood.

"You probably deserved it," he spat, looming over me. "Don't you ever forget what this is, Ava. Or Isabella, or whoever the hell you are. This is a contract. A business deal. It has nothing to do with feelings, especially not yours."

As darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, one thought remained crystal clear. He was right. It was just a contract. And tomorrow, it would be over. I had never wanted his love. I had only ever wanted to be free of him.

The pain in my head was a dull throb, a faint echo of the sharp agony from that night. Donovan hadn't bothered to call a doctor. He'd just looked down at me, his face twisted in disgust.

"Chloe only has a scratch on her arm from a fall, but you look like you're dying. Always so dramatic."

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into the flesh, and hauled me to my feet. The room spun.

"Get up," he ordered, his voice devoid of any warmth. "You're going to go to Chloe's place and apologize."

I didn't fight him. I didn't say a word. In my mind, a countdown was running. Twenty-four hours. Just twenty-four more hours of this, and then I would be gone. I could endure anything for one more day.

We arrived at Chloe's luxurious penthouse. The moment she saw me, she flinched, shrinking back against the cushions of her sofa like a frightened rabbit. She had a small bandage on her forearm.

"Donovan, why did you bring her here?" she whimpered, her eyes wide with fake terror. "I'm scared."

Donovan immediately went to her side, wrapping a protective arm around her. "It's okay, Chloe. I'm here. She's going to apologize."

He shot me a look, a clear command.

I ignored him and looked directly at Chloe. My voice was steady, devoid of emotion. "What exactly am I apologizing for?"

Chloe's eyes filled with tears. "For... for threatening me. For saying you wished I would disappear so you could have Donovan all to yourself."

She turned her tear-streaked face to Donovan. "I know she loves you, Donovan. I know it's hard for her, seeing us together. But I never thought she would be so cruel."

The performance was flawless. She was the victim, the fragile flower, and I was the wicked, jealous wife.

Donovan's face hardened. He was completely hooked by her act. "Ava. Apologize. Now."

I looked at his furious face, then at Chloe's triumphant smirk hidden behind her trembling hands. It was pointless to argue. It was always pointless. The truth didn't matter in this world, only power and preference. And Donovan's preference was clear.

So I did it. I swallowed the lump of ash in my throat.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sanders," I said, my voice a flat monotone. "I was wrong."

Donovan wasn't satisfied. "You'll stay here and take care of Chloe until she feels better. Cook for her. Make sure she takes her medicine."

It was another humiliation, another turn of the screw. But the clock was ticking. I was so close.

"Fine," I said.

For the next few hours, I was a servant in my rival's home. I watched Donovan feed Chloe soup, fluff her pillows, and whisper comforting words in her ear. He treated her like she was made of spun glass. He treated me like I was the dirt on his shoe.

I moved through the apartment with a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching a movie. I cleaned the kitchen, prepared a meal I knew she wouldn't eat, and brought her water. I was a perfect, silent automaton.

One of the maids in Chloe's building saw me. She whispered to another staff member, loud enough for me to hear.

"That's Mrs. Blackwood. Look at her. Her own husband makes her wait on his mistress. She must love him to death to put up with this."

Donovan, who was walking out of the bedroom, heard it too. He paused, his gaze falling on me. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes again-confusion, maybe. He looked at me, truly looked at me, for the first time in a long time.

He was re-evaluating me, trying to fit me into the box of a tragic, lovesick wife. Let him. His misunderstanding was my shield.

Later, Chloe was feeling better. Donovan announced they were going out for a drive to get some fresh air.

"You stay here," he told me. "Don't go anywhere. Don't cause any more trouble."

I simply nodded. The moment the door closed behind them, a wave of relief washed over me. I was alone. I could breathe. I started quietly packing the few personal items I had brought with me. My departure was imminent.

Hours later, I was scrolling through my phone, a habit I'd picked up to pass the long, empty evenings. A news alert popped up. A celebrity gossip site. The headline was splashy: "Billionaire CEO Donovan Blackwood and socialite Chloe Sanders rekindle their romance on a romantic getaway."

There was a picture. Donovan and Chloe, laughing together on a yacht. He was looking at her with an expression of pure adoration, an expression I had never seen on his face.

I looked at the picture, at the man who was my husband, at the woman who had made my life a living hell.

And I felt nothing.

I swiped the notification away and continued reading my book.

The annual Blackwood family foundation dinner was a mandatory affair. It was also the one event Donovan never missed. Except for this year. He was still on his "romantic getaway" with Chloe. I had to face his formidable family alone.

"Where is Donovan?" his grandfather, the old patriarch of the Blackwood clan, demanded the moment I arrived. His eyes were like chips of granite.

"He had an urgent business matter to attend to overseas," I lied smoothly, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I was still performing my role. The dutiful wife, covering for her absent husband.

The lie held for about an hour. Then, the bomb dropped. A junior cousin, scrolling on her phone, gasped loud enough to silence the table.

"Oh my god! Look at this!"

She held up her phone. It was the same gossip website, but with a new, more scandalous article. Photos of Donovan and Chloe kissing on the deck of the yacht, the headline screaming about their torrid affair and Donovan's "abandoned wife."

The room fell into a dead silence. Every eye turned to me. I could feel their judgment, their pity, their contempt, pressing down on me like a physical weight.

Donovan's grandfather slammed his fist on the table. "Disgraceful!" he roared. His face was purple with rage, but his anger wasn't directed at his grandson. It was directed at me.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me from the dining room into his study, the doors closing behind us with a heavy thud.

"This is your fault," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You couldn't keep your husband in line. You let him humiliate this family."

"I can't control him," I said, my voice quiet.

"You will fix this," he commanded. "You will get him back here, you will shut down these rumors, and you will restore the family's honor. Or you will face the consequences." He pointed to a long, thin cane resting against the wall. "In this family, we have ways of dealing with failure."

Fix it? How could I possibly fix it? Donovan was a force of nature, driven by his obsession with Chloe. I had no power over him. The old man was asking me to do the impossible.

There was only one choice. To endure. To take the punishment, because fighting was futile.

"I can't fix it," I said, my voice still calm. "So I will accept the punishment."

His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in fury. "You defy me?"

"I am stating a fact," I replied.

He grabbed the cane. The first blow landed across my back, a searing line of fire. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Another blow, and another. The pain was immense, but my mind was strangely clear. It was just pain. It would pass. Like everything else, this too would end.

I don't know how many times he hit me before I collapsed, the world dissolving into a black, swirling vortex.

I woke up in my bed at the mansion. The first thing I saw was Donovan's face, etched with a strange mixture of anger and concern.

"What happened?" he demanded. "Grandfather's assistant called me. Said you fainted."

"I was punished," I said simply.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, a hint of frustration in his voice. "I could have stopped him."

I almost laughed. The irony was suffocating. "You were busy," I said, my voice laced with a weariness that went bone-deep. "I didn't want to disturb you and Miss Sanders."

His expression tightened. He heard the unspoken accusation. The whispers of the maids, my quiet acceptance of humiliation, and now this. The narrative he had built in his head-the story of the pathetic, lovesick wife-was solidifying. He saw my sacrifice not as a strategic endurance, but as a testament to my undying love for him.

For the first time, he did something unexpected. He stayed. He sat in a chair by my bed while a doctor he'd summoned tended to the welts on my back. He didn't say much, but he was there. It was a strange, hollow comfort.

He left a few days later, called away by another of Chloe's manufactured emergencies. I was alone again, my body aching but my spirit resolute. The contract was ending in a matter of days.

I was at a small cafe downtown, picking up a specific blend of coffee Donovan liked-a force of habit I was eager to break. Two women at the next table were talking loudly, staring at me.

"That's her," one whispered. "Donovan Blackwood's wife. Look at her clothes. So plain. She looks like a housekeeper."

"It's embarrassing," the other agreed. "If I were married to a billionaire, I'd at least dress the part."

I ignored them, paid for the coffee, and turned to leave. A hand on my arm stopped me. It was Donovan.

"What was that about?" he asked, his eyes dark.

Before I could answer, he dragged me out of the cafe and into a high-end boutique next door.

"Your appearance reflects on me," he said, his voice tight with anger. "You will not embarrass the Blackwood name."

He started pulling dresses off the racks, thrusting them at me. "Try these on." I was a doll, a mannequin to be dressed. He paid with a black credit card, the transaction swift and impersonal. He never gave me an allowance, never gave me any money. My existence was funded on his whim. I was entirely dependent, a fact that chafed more than any insult.

We walked out of the store, my arms laden with shopping bags filled with clothes I didn't want. And there, across the street, was Chloe.

She saw us. Her face crumpled into a mask of betrayal and pain. She looked at Donovan, then at me, then turned and ran, a perfect picture of a heartbroken lover.

Donovan didn't hesitate.

He dropped my arm, the expensive bags tumbling to the pavement, and ran after her. "Chloe!"

I watched them go, a familiar coldness settling in my chest. I stood there for a moment, surrounded by the symbols of his wealth and his fleeting attention.

Then, chaos erupted. A screech of tires. A scream.

A piece of scaffolding from a construction site overhead had broken loose. It came crashing down, right where Chloe had been running.