The Substitute Wife's Secret Baby Escape

The ride back to the estate was a silent, high-stakes battle. Damien didn't speak. He simply pulled Halle against his side, his arm a steel band around her shoulders, pinning her to the leather seat. She could smell the whiskey on his breath—sour and cloying—mixing with his usual cologne. In the enclosed space of the car, it was overwhelming. She didn't fight him. Not here. Not in front of the driver. She sat rigid, her hands clenched into tight fists in her lap, and stared out the window at the city lights smearing past.

The moment the car glided to a stop in the grand circular driveway, he was moving. He pulled her out before Mr. Wallace could even open the door, his grip on her arm relentless. He half-dragged, half-carried her up the marble steps and through the front doors, his long strides forcing her to practically run to keep up.

He didn't stop until he threw her into the master bedroom. She landed on the sprawling bed, the soft mattress absorbing the impact. She immediately scrambled backward, pushing herself up against the headboard, creating as much distance as she could. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

"Damien, you're drunk," she said, her voice shaking despite her efforts to keep it steady. "Don't touch me."

She looked at his face, shadowed in the dim light. The fury was still there, a dark fire in his eyes. She had to make him understand.

"I'm going to say this one more time." She made each word precise and sharp. "I am not Elara. I refuse to be anyone's substitute."

A bitter laugh escaped her. It was absurd. She was a cheap replica, arguing with the collector who refused to admit he'd been sold a fake.

Her words were gasoline on a flame.

"You are Halle Kane!" he roared, his voice echoing in the large room. "My wife!"

He was deliberately missing the point, clinging to the one fact that gave him ownership. He tore at his tie, ripping it from his collar and tossing it to the floor. He started toward the bed.

Halle knew, with sickening certainty, that she couldn't win a physical fight.

She changed tactics, her voice softening into something placating. "You smell like a distillery. Why don't you take a shower? Calm down. Please?"

He stopped. His head tilted as he studied her. A cruel smile touched his lips. "Trying to stall? Or planning to run?"

Before she could answer, he lunged. He scooped her up into his arms, her cry of protest muffled against his chest. He ignored her struggles, carrying her as if she weighed nothing, straight into the cavernous master bathroom.

He didn't bother with the lights. He kicked the glass door of the walk-in shower open and turned the handle.

Ice-cold water rained down from the overhead fixture, instantly soaking them both. The shock of it made her gasp, her dress clinging to her skin. "You're insane!" she shrieked, pushing against his chest.

His mouth came down on hers—a brutal, punishing kiss that stole her breath and silenced her protests. It wasn't a kiss of passion. It was an act of possession. Cold water streamed over them, but his body was a furnace against hers. Her mind went numb, caught between the freezing spray and the burning humiliation.

He pushed her back against the cold marble wall of the shower. Then he turned her, forcing her to face the large, steam-proof mirror on the opposite wall. Their reflection was a dark, tangled mess in the dim light—his large frame caging her smaller one, water plastering her hair to her face, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance.

His lips were at her ear, his voice a low, taunting whisper against the pounding water. "Look, Halle. Look at us. Now tell me you really want to leave me."

She stared at their reflection. She saw a desperate woman trapped in the arms of a man who was looking right through her, seeing someone else. The brand of the substitute was being seared into her soul.

A wave of pure, unadulterated rage surged through her. It was a strength she didn't know she possessed. With a guttural scream, she shoved him back with all her might. The move surprised him, giving her a precious second of freedom. She stumbled out of the shower, grabbing the first thing her hand found on the marble vanity—a heavy crystal perfume bottle.

She didn't throw it at him. She hurled it at the floor.

It shattered with a deafening crack. The expensive fragrance exploded into the air, a cloyingly sweet scent of ruin.

She pointed a trembling finger toward the bathroom door, her voice raw. "We are getting a divorce. This is not negotiable!"

For a moment, he just stood there under the water, his chest rising and falling heavily. Then a low, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. It was the sound of a predator enjoying the fight. He stepped out of the shower, water streaming from his body, and came for her again.