His Poor Heiress

KATHLEEN’S POV

What would you do when the doorbell to the house you share with your husband rings, and you open it to find a strange woman on the other side, claiming to be your husband’s wife?

A smile graces my lips as I set the dining table for dinner. I have made Devon’s favorite tonight. Mac and cheese.

Cooking wasn’t something I was good at when I married Devon, but I learned. Especially when it came to the meals he loved.

Mac and cheese was his favorite. He could eat it seven days a week and never complain.

Devon and I have been married for three years, and honestly, he is the best decision I have ever made.

I have always been impulsive. Three years ago, I even devised a ridiculous way to find true love—pretend to be poor and see which man would fall for me.

My friends, Abigail and Tasha, thought I was crazy.

Then Devon walked into my life.

The day we met had been like any other day in my novel life as a waitress. A job I wasn’t doing particularly well at, judging by the number of plates I broke, the countless orders I got wrong, and the kitchens I somehow managed to set on fire.

I was nearly blacklisted as a waitress because of the disasters that seemed to follow me everywhere.

I had just started at a new restaurant, determined not to give up, and it was the third month of my quest to find love.

I was carrying a handful of trays containing the order for table five when I tripped over my own feet and went crashing to the ground. The tray flew from my hands, its contents sailing through the air before landing directly on a customer who had just walked into the restaurant.

That customer was Devon.

I lost that job.

But I got Devon’s number.

We started seeing each other, and what began as a spectacular mishap quickly turned into love.

Devon wasn’t just handsome. He was charming, funny, and a gentleman. The kind who opened doors, bought flowers for no reason, and cooked you meals simply because he knew you’d love them.

Even when I finally revealed who I really was, Devon took it in stride.

He was the perfect man I had been looking for.

Little wonder I married him after six months of dating.

And I don’t regret it.

Not for a second.

Who says the most impulsive plans can’t lead to something good?

Devon has been working hard lately. More than usual.

And I am worried about him.

He is a sales executive at a huge motor company, a promotion he recently got, and it seems to be keeping him out of the house more than I like.

I miss my husband.

After setting the table, I glance at the clock.

My heart flips.

Devon should be home soon.

I imagine him walking through the door, looking as gorgeous as he always does, and me waiting to greet him with a kiss.

My pulse quickens.

Devon and I haven’t been intimate for weeks now.

Whenever I ask, he’s always tired. Always rushing somewhere. Always promising we’ll find time later.

But later never seems to come.

I miss us.

I miss the couple we were when we first got married—the two of us who couldn’t go a few minutes without touching each other. The way he’d pull me into his arms for no reason. The way he’d kiss me just because he could.

I miss being wanted by my husband.

The doorbell rings, startling me.

I jump, my heart leaping into my throat.

Then I smile.

Devon is home.

I quickly calm my nerves and hurry toward the door, a smile already brightening my face.

I can’t wait to be in his arms again. To kiss him. To feel close to him.

Maybe tonight, I can have my husband all to myself.

A sensual grin tugs at my lips at the thought.

So eager am I to see him that I don’t stop to remember one very important detail.

Devon has his own key.

He doesn’t need to ring the doorbell.

“Baby, you are home,” I say as I throw the door open.

The smile on my lips freezes.

There is a woman standing on the other side.

A stranger.

She has blonde hair, beautiful cat-like green eyes, and a nervousness that makes her look almost fragile. She can’t be much older than me, perhaps a few years at most.

Then my eyes drop.

To her stomach.

She is pregnant.

For a second, my mind refuses to process what I am seeing.

I swallow, forcing down the excitement that had risen in me at the thought of seeing Devon. I straighten, composing myself.

“Can I help you?”

The woman looks nervous. Hesitant.

She struggles to meet my eyes, her fingers fidgeting nervously in front of her.

“Is this Devon Matthew’s home?” she asks.

Her voice is so soft, so small, that I almost have to lean forward to hear her.

I nod.

“Yes.”

Then curiosity gets the better of me.

“And you are?”

Who is she?

Maybe his sister?

No.

There is no resemblance between them.

Devon has dark brown hair, deep chocolate-brown eyes, and stands at six foot two. This woman has blonde hair and green eyes.

Maybe his cousin.

Devon isn’t particularly close to his family, and I have only met his mother. Perhaps this is another relative I’ve never heard about.

Maybe she needs help.

Perhaps something happened.

Perhaps—

“I am his wife.”

The words are quiet.

Almost apologetic.

But they hit me like a slap.

I stare at her.

For a moment, I genuinely think I have heard her wrong.

His wife?

My fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

A strange pressure builds in my chest.

I look at her again, searching her face for some hint that this is a joke. Some sign that she is confused. That she has the wrong house.

But she doesn’t look confused.

She looks terrified.

And somehow, that scares me more.

My heart begins to pound.

“No,” I whisper.

The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it.

The woman flinches.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Because somewhere deep inside me, beneath the disbelief and confusion, something cold has begun to settle.

I look at her stomach again.

Then back at her face.

His wife.

My husband.

The words refuse to fit together.

Surely, there is a mistake somewhere.

The man I married can’t be this dubious.

He can’t have been lying to me.

Not for three years.

And surely, he couldn’t have been that good an actor.

Could he?

My mind races through every late night.

Every unanswered call.

Every time he came home tired.

Every excuse.

Every time I reached for him and he pulled away.

Suddenly, all those little moments I had dismissed begin rearranging themselves in my mind.

My stomach twists.

No.

I shake my head slightly.

I don’t want to believe this.

Because if she is telling the truth, then I haven’t just been fooled.

I have been living inside a lie.

And the man I love—the man I have spent three years believing was mine—may never have been mine at all.