Trading A Fake Marriage For A Real Vow

The insurance agent spoke plainly over the phone. "Ms. Jones, our records show you are not Mr. Davies' wife. I'm afraid we can't handle the claim since you are not listed as his spouse."

Helena Jones had gotten into a car accident on her drive to Bryson Davies' company that day.

A Mercedes slammed into her from behind. The other driver, knowing the stretch of road had no surveillance cameras, flipped the story and boldly demanded one hundred thousand dollars to settle privately.

Bryson's line remained unreachable no matter how many times she tried. Helena pressed her mouth tight, then dialed the insurance company as her only option.

She and Bryson got married two years ago. And the car belonged to him. Filing a claim should have been easy.

For a second, Helena wondered if she had misheard the person from the other end of the line.

"Could there be a mistake in your records?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

"The system is accurate. It lists Mr. Davies' legal wife as a woman named Charlee Jones. Not you," the agent replied, a trace of impatience creeping into his tone.

Helena's grip went slack at that. The phone slipped from her fingers and hit the ground.

The line cut off on its own.

An icy sensation climbed from her feet. Her face drained of color, as if someone had struck her.

Charlee.

That name was too familiar to her.

Helena's and Bryson's families had arranged their engagement back when they were just kids. When she boarded her flight for overseas studies, Bryson had slipped past security, dashed along the runway beside the accelerating plane, and called out loudly that he would wait until she came back, no matter how long it took.

Over those three years away, he had made the long trip to see her every time his schedule opened up.

Right after getting her degree, she hurried home full of excitement to give him a surprise.

She turned the handle of his office door to open it, only to see a woman with a gentle, innocent face resting on his lap, her cheeks warm with shyness, while she let him kiss her deeply without pulling away.

Once the kiss ended, Bryson's look hardened into something distant and closed off. "Only because you carry a slight resemblance to her that I allowed you near me."

That woman turned out to be Charlee.

She had grown up as the adopted daughter in the Jones family, making her Helena's adopted younger sister.

When the affair was exposed, Bryson flipped to frantic apologies, begging Helena to forgive him with the kind of desperation that looked ready to bring him to his knees.

He kept repeating that Charlee meant nothing more than a temporary substitute for her, insisting he never crossed the line with Charlee.

Everything she had seen that day, he chalked up completely to being far too drunk.

Back then, Helena refused to accept even the smallest hint of dishonesty, so she brushed aside his explanations and pushed hard to cancel the engagement for good.

Bryson, who usually carried himself with cold arrogance, planted himself day and night at her door, saying soft, earnest pleas in a humbled voice. But she still didn't forgive him.

Then, everything changed one night when a business rival kidnapped her and locked her inside a rundown warehouse far outside the city. Bryson charged straight to the place, diving into the burning building without hesitation. He covered her body with his own to stop a heavy falling steel beam from crushing her and took terrible injuries that left him fighting for life in the hospital for almost six full months.

That single act tore down the walls around her heart.

When Bryson was finally discharged from the hospital, she gave in and said yes to marrying him.

The wedding became the talk of Glurora, with everyone gossiping about how Bryson had finally chosen to settle.

In all the two years since, no rumor of another woman ever surfaced. Bryson came home before ten every night without exception, and even on work trips, he never skipped the evening video call, always treating her like she sat at the center of his world.

The memories of all that kept replaying in Helena's head.

She felt her legs fold under her. She dropped straight down to the ground and pressed both hands against her face while cold sweat coated her shaking fingers.

At that moment, Bryson seemed like someone she had never truly known.

The big, rough driver who caused the crash had already lost every bit of patience. He spat on the ground and said, "This is something else! Thirty years of my life, and I finally see a mistress bold enough to try taking the wife's spot! Cut the delay. Pay the money right now!"

Ice flashed through Helena's eyes even as a bitter, silent laugh rose inside her.

The whole thing felt ridiculous beyond words.

She had worn the title of Bryson's wife for two complete years, and only in this moment did she realize that their marriage was fake.

She rubbed her face roughly. Wet hair already stuck to her forehead from the chill sweat.

When her voice came again, it sounded steady and clear.

"Call the police."

After giving her statement, Helena finally left the police station. The sky had long since turned dark, and the streetlamps were glowing like distant embers against the night.

The cool air brushed her face. She reached for her phone. Several missed calls from Bryson lit up the screen.

Since she hadn't answered his calls, he had sent her messages.

"I was in a meeting this afternoon. The signal was blocked, so I wasn't able to answer your calls. Is everything okay?"

"By the way, I have a business dinner tonight. I'll be back late. I promise you, there won't be any women there."

"Rest early, okay? Don't wait up for me."

Helena stared at the words on the screen. The messages seemed thoughtful and reassuring, but she felt nothing but a profound chill settle in her heart.

Bryson did not return home until the middle of the night.

Helena lay awake, her eyes open, listening as his unsteady footsteps dragged across the floor. He reeked of alcohol. The sharp smell clung to him as he stumbled inside. But even through the haze of liquor, she caught something else.

A faint scent of perfume that was not hers.

"Helena..." Bryson staggered over to the bed. He pulled back the covers to hold her and murmured, "I've missed you..."

Helena said nothing. She lay still, listening to his uneven breathing. Minutes passed slowly. She waited until his body went slack and his breathing became steady before she sat up. She reached over, took his phone from beside him, and unlocked it without a sound.

She scrolled through all his social accounts and searched. Messages, call logs, social apps. However, she could not find a single suspicious message.

His contacts were filled with coworkers, business partners, and familiar friends. And there, among them, her own number was still saved as "Honey."

It was his only pinned contact.

Everything was impossibly perfect.

Just like her two-year marriage, it looked perfect on the surface, polished to the point of seeming unreal.

From the outside, it was like an exquisitely decorated cake covered in thick frosting. It looked smooth and sweet. But the deeper one cut, the more one found what was hidden underneath-something rotten.

If that was the case, she wanted neither the cake nor the marriage.

The next morning, when Helena woke up, she went downstairs to the dining room. Bryson was in the kitchen making breakfast, wearing an apron like a devoted husband. His broad shoulders and lean physique were, for anyone else, quite pleasing to the eye.

Helena stared at his back, her gaze steady and unblinking.

The Davies family could certainly afford maids. But ever since Helena had been poisoned years ago as the result of a business conflict that involved the Davies, Bryson had insisted on cooking for her himself. He had said it was safer that way and that he could not trust anyone else with what she ate.

In fact, he had learned to cook entirely for her sake. At first, he had been awkward, clumsy with knives and pans, and burning simple dishes. He then spent hours in the kitchen every day, perfecting meals and adjusting flavors until everything was just right.

A privileged heir from Daxwell's elite circles, standing over a stove each day, all so his wife could eat meals that were clean and safe. In less than two months, he had gone from a kitchen novice to a great chef.

If it were in the past, Helena would have been moved by his gestures. Now, she only watched, and the warmth that had once been in her eyes was gone.

The next moment, Bryson's phone rang.

Helena had never been in the habit of checking his phone. She had never wanted to be that kind of woman. However, the look of unease that crossed Bryson's face as he stepped out of the kitchen to get his phone did not escape her notice. His jaw tightened for a second before he smoothed his expression again.

Without a word, Helena turned away. She went to get water as if she hadn't noticed anything at all.

By the time she returned, the breakfast Bryson had prepared was already laid out neatly on the table.

But instead of sitting down to have a meal with her, he hurriedly grabbed his suit jacket from the coat rack and said, "Something came up at the company. It's urgent. I have to go now. Eat up, alright?"

Helena looked at him and replied evenly, "Go ahead."

The words were colder than usual. In the past, she might have asked him what was wrong with concern in her eyes. But Bryson seemed too preoccupied to notice. His mind was already elsewhere. Without another word, he opened the door and left.

The silence that followed was heavy. Helena didn't move for a moment, staring at the untouched breakfast. The plates were still warm, the meal carefully prepared, but she didn't have any appetite at all. She only took a sip of the water she had just poured. Then, she picked up her phone and dialed a number.

When the line connected, she spoke in a clear voice. "I'll participate in the research project you've mentioned before."

The voice on the other end sounded pleasantly surprised. There was a brief pause, as if the person wanted to be sure they had heard her correctly. Once they were sure they hadn't misheard, they began explaining the details of the project. They talked about timelines, expectations, and the scope of the work. After a while, the voice on the other end softened. "Helena, you told me before you were getting married and wanted to be a housewife, and that's why you gave up all your career pursuits. Have you finally had a change of heart?"

At that, Helena's grip tightened around the phone, and her eyes grew cold.

Her home had been full of cracks for years. It was only because she had chosen to forgive Bryson again and again that she had managed to keep living in peace. Now, every time she thought of what she had seen in Bryson's office, it felt like tearing open her wound.

The person on the phone was her former university mentor, someone who had once guided her with patience and belief. They were returning to the country soon and preparing to assemble a team for a new development project.

Still, before leaving for the project, Helena had one important thing left to do.

That evening, she dressed herself inconspicuously, choosing plain clothes and a simple coat. Then, she went to a private auction near the docks.

She stepped inside with steady resolve. She was there to bid on one of her father's belongings.

Her parents had both died in a car accident when she was fifteen. Not long after their passing, the Jones family's assets were seized and auctioned off by the courts. It had felt like being stripped twice: first, of the people she loved, then, of everything they had left behind. Over the years, she had worked hard. She built her own life piece by piece, earning her place and name. And with her earnings, she had gradually managed to buy back the items that had once been her parents'.

She had carefully investigated this auction. One of the lots was an emerald sculpture her father had bought to cheer her up when she was a child.

The sculpture was a piece of high-quality carved gemstone. It was rare and meticulously crafted, the kind of object meant to last for generations.

She could still remember the day her father brought it home. She could see his smile as clearly as if it were yesterday. For a moment, she closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath. When she opened them again, the resolve in them was firm. She had to win the bid today, no matter what it cost. She could not let that piece of her father slip away from her.

Helena found a seat toward the middle, close enough to the stage. Then, she picked up the auction catalog and slowly flipped through its pages.

Unexpectedly, a familiar voice came from beside her.

For a second, a shadow seemed to pass over Bryon's face.

Almost without thinking, he pulled his arm away from the woman clinging to it.

"Helena, you didn't reply to my messages. Did you come here to surprise me?" he asked.

Helena blinked. Surprise?

How cheeky of him to just assume she'd still be surprising him with anything.

Helena lifted her gaze to him and watched him put on an act. She could have torn the mask away with a single sentence, but she did not. "I was busy this afternoon. I didn't check my messages."

Hearing that, Bryson seemed to let out a sigh of relief, as though he believed the danger had passed.

He knelt on one knee so he could meet her at eye level and said in a seemingly concerned tone, "It's cold today. You went out dressed so lightly. I am worried that you will catch a cold."

As he spoke, he lifted a hand and gestured to a nearby attendant. A blanket was brought over at once. He took it carefully and wrapped it around her shoulders. To anyone watching, the gesture looked caring.

Helena remained still. She watched his actions quietly, her expression unreadable, then slowly let her gaze drift past him to Charlee.

For a brief second, Charlee looked caught off guard. Then, just as quickly, a bright smile spread across her features as she greeted Helena, saying, "Helena, what a coincidence."

Without waiting for Helena's reply, she then sat down in the seat one over from Helena, settling herself as though she belonged there.

Bryson tucked a strand of hair behind Helena's ear and leaned in to say, "Charlee has secured several major projects for the company recently. I promised her a gift as a reward, and it is her birthday soon."

He let the words hang for a moment, as if they were supposed to explain everything. "Helena, you're not upset about this, are you?"

Before Helena could answer, Charlee interjected, "Helena, if you don't want me here, I can leave."

Helena's face showed nothing at all. Not even a flicker of anger or hurt. Instead, she replied indifferently, "Why would I not want you to be here? Bryson's your brother-in-law. Consider it a birthday gift from both of us as a couple."

Even though their marriage was fake, she was still Bryson's wife in the eyes of the public.

Charlee remained the mistress.

When the auction began, Bryson quickly placed the first bids. One after another, he won several jewelry sets, each one for Helena.

Charlee, however, seemed unable to contain herself any longer. She slipped her hand closer and hooked her pinky finger around Bryson's in secret.

Bryson's expression remained unchanged, but beneath the chair, his finger tightened around hers.

Helena saw it all, and something about it struck her as almost laughable.

Before the Jones family's decline, she and Charlee had been known in Daxwell's elite circles as the accomplished and beautiful siblings. People spoke their names with admiration. Wherever they appeared, heads turned. Even after their family's downfall, that attention never really disappeared.

So, how could Bryson sit there, so self-assured, thinking he could keep one as his wife and the other as his mistress? He really thought he could have everything, didn't he?

Helena had no obsession with Bryson. He was not the center of her world, and he never had been. So, when this relationship finally began to threaten her emotions and her interests, she knew what should come next. It was time to sever her ties.

Just then, the auctioneer's voice rang out across the hall. "Next is the final lot of the evening-an emerald sculpture. The texture is exquisite, and the inclusions are lively. The opening bid is two million."

Helena snapped back to attention at once. Everything else faded into the background. At last, her target for the evening had finally appeared.

"Bidder number 20 offers 2.6 million. Any higher bids?"

Helena's gaze sharpened, and her fingers curled slightly. This was the moment she had been waiting for. Seeing that the bidding was about to conclude, she raised her paddle and said, "3.5 million!"

A piece like this was rare, but the people willing to spend freely on it were rarer. And Helena's offer stood far above the opening bid, high enough to make the room pause. Everyone could see she had come here for this sculpture. And in circles like these, there was an unspoken rule. When someone revealed such clear intent, others rarely interfered. No one wished to challenge Helena now. Just as expected, no other paddle rose.

"The lady with paddle number 7 bids 3.5 million. Any bids above that price?"

"3.5 million, going once! 3.5 million, going twice..."

The room held its breath. Just as Leo, the auctioneer, raised his gavel to finalize the sale, a gentle voice echoed in the air.

"3.51 million!"