The Substitute Wife Walks Away Clean

Clarice's POV

After surrendering everything to my picture-perfect stepsister, I moved far away to Calder City.

The next time I saw them was on the eve of Paloma's wedding. Milo Hawthorne, sharply dressed in a tuxedo, stood by the champagne tower. He stared at me, his eyes turning red.

"It’s been a long time, Clarice."

I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, my diamond ring catching the chandelier's light. "I've found my true love, too. I wish you both happiness."

His Adam's apple bobbed. He couldn't say a single word.

On stage, my father, Gideon Thorne, raised his glass. He proudly announced that tomorrow was Paloma and Milo’s big day, praising Paloma as his most mature, trouble-free child. The crowd applauded. No one mentioned his other daughter, who hadn't stepped foot in this house for four years.

Paloma linked her arm through mine, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I'm so glad you came. Dad wouldn't let me call you, so I secretly had someone deliver the invitation to Calder City."

Rumor had it in the banquet hall that Milo dragged his feet for four years before finally marrying her because he was waiting for me. I sipped my wine, feeling absolutely nothing.

My husband was Darius Harlow. He controlled Calder City’s old docks, warehouses, and freight unions. He was the head of the Harlow family—emotionally stable, dangerously detail-oriented, and wildly devoted. When he heard I was returning to Ellsworth for my stepsister's wedding, he canceled all family business to fly out with me.

Carrying a gift, I went to find Paloma in her room. Outside her door, I heard her sobbing.

"Darius, I was the one who let go seven years ago. Let me make it up to you tonight. Please?"

My heart skipped a beat. A second later, my husband's heavy breathing leaked through the crack of the door.

"Paloma, I swore I'd make you regret it."

So, my husband was the destitute dockworker she had dumped for being poor when she was twenty-two.

Covering my mouth, I backed away to the end of the hall. I pulled out my phone, pressed the record button, and forced myself not to kick the door open. In four years, Darius had never lost control in front of me. He was always restrained. Even kissing me felt like he was just following a procedure.

He didn't return to our hotel suite until 2:00 AM. Thinking I was asleep, he slipped quietly into bed. He smelled of perfume—and it wasn't mine.

"You knew Paloma. Why didn't you say a single word about it in four years?"

My voice was so hoarse I barely recognized it. His arm, reaching out for me, stiffened for half a second before dropping.

"I spent a year in Ellsworth doing temp work at the docks. I knew her then. She just got married, so I went to wish her a happy marriage. That’s all."

He tried to pull me into him from behind out of habit. I pulled away and pressed play on my phone. Heavy pants and moans echoed through the dark room.

"Does wishing her a happy marriage require the two of you rolling around in bed?"

He took the phone from me, paused the recording, and spoke with terrifying calm. "You followed me?"

"I went to give her a gift."

"Clarice." He tossed the phone onto the pillow. "Yes, I slept with her. But are you any cleaner? You met Milo tonight, didn't you? You even carried his bastard child, didn't you?"

Something snapped in my brain.

At twenty-two, I was Professor Adrienne Vogel's most promising PhD candidate. I opened the door to the Sedgwick lab and saw Milo and Paloma tangling together. I started bleeding right there. The baby didn't make it. The next day, Paloma sat by my hospital bed with red eyes, claiming it was an accident, begging for a chance. Then she flipped her phone screen. It was a sex tape of Milo and me.

She demanded I trade my thesis for the tape. I did. My academic records were wiped, my lab keycard cut in half. Professor Vogel called me seven times; I didn't dare answer a single one.

For four years, I hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone.

He looked at my bloodshot eyes and fell silent for a few seconds.

"Alright, enough drama. I'll try to see less of her."

He got up, fetched his pillbox, and handed me a glass of water. "You're getting emotional. Take your meds and go to sleep."

I used to fall for this. I used to think no one else in the world could catch my breakdowns with such steady hands. Now, watching him ruthlessly suppress my trauma like it was an annoyance, I only felt freezing cold.