Chapter Six -The Wife I Barely Knew

Spencer’s POV

“You are Ruby,” I said, voice low. “You are my wife. And I’m going to prove it to you right now.”

She stared up at me, eyes wet, lips trembling, that same stubborn fire still burning behind the fear. Most people would have broken by now. Most people would have collapsed into compliance. But she simply lifted her chin and met my gaze with a defiance that made my blood boil.

How long was this madness going to last?

I had no patience left. No tolerance.

“Then prove it.” Her voice cracked, but the challenge was clear. “You said you were going to prove I’m your wife. What are you waiting for?”

I said nothing. Because the truth—the humiliating, infuriating truth—was that I couldn't prove it.

We'd been married for one month. One month. That was all the time I had spent married to her. I barely knew her face. I had never slept in this room with her. Never touched her. Never fucked her. Never kissed her, never held her, never even seen her face in the soft light of morning.

The marriage was a transaction. A blood donation with a wedding ring. I'd told myself that she was simply a means to an end.

I didn’t know a single intimate detail that could prove anything, and the fact that she was forcing me to confront that ignorance made something ugly twist in my chest.

“Waiting for what?" she pressed, stepping closer. "For me to confess? For me to break? You said you'd prove it—so prove it.”

Irritation surged hot and sharp.

I yanked her against me hard enough that her breath left her in a startled rush. One hand fisted in her hair, the other locked around her waist, and I kissed her like I was trying to punish her mouth for every lie that had come out of it. Violent. Claiming. Teeth and force and zero gentleness. I pinned her to the wall with my body so she couldn’t twist away.

She managed it anyway.

She tore her face to the side, shoved at my chest, and spat directly in my face.

The wet heat of it slid down my cheek.

Her chest heaving, eyes blazing with hatred.

Something black and violent roared through me. For one blinding second I wanted to slam her head into the wall until the defiance left her eyes. My hand even twitched toward her throat again. I forced it down. Barely.

I wiped my face with the back of my wrist, slow, controlled, and looked at her.

“You’re going to that psychiatric hospital I mentioned,” I said quietly. “Tonight.”

I pulled out my phone and hit Vincent’s number without looking away from her.

“Come up. Immediately. Bring the men.”

Her face was drained of color.

“No—please—” She dropped to her knees so fast her bones hit the floor with a sick sound. Both hands reached for my pant leg like she had no pride left. “Please don’t do this. I’ll take you to her. To my mother. I’m serious. I’m not Ruby. Please. Just let me show you.”

I stared down at her. Tears streamed freely now. Her voice was raw from my hand earlier and from screaming.

“If she dies,” she choked, “will you be able to live with yourself knowing you stopped me from getting home to give her the medication?

I said nothing.

"Why do I even bother asking?" She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "You don't have a heart. You’re the kind of man who sleeps comfortably at night even after he runs someone over.”

The words landed wrong.

Too specific.

I received a call only this morning. Someone had started asking questions that should have stayed buried. And now my wife—who knew nothing about that accident—was throwing that exact accusation at me like she had plucked it from my own guilt.

I reached down, gripped her upper arms, and hauled her to her feet in one pull. I forced her face up to mine.

“What did you just say about running someone over. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Nothing—I don't—it was just—" She shook her head, panic flaring in her eyes. "It was just a figure of speech. That’s all. I swear.”

She didn't know.

She couldn't know.

I was being paranoid.

I released her. She stumbled back, rubbing her arms where my fingers had dug in, and I watched her for a long moment. Trying to read her.

I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled hard through my nose.

“Fine,” I said. “Take me to this mother of yours.”

I didn’t explain anything else. I simply closed my hand around her wrist and dragged her toward the door. She stumbled trying to keep up. I opened it.

Vincent stood in the hallway exactly where I expected him.

“Need anything, sir?”

“Get the boys ready. We’re going to see how far my wife’s madness has reached.”

Vincent moved immediately, already speaking into his earpiece.

I turned my head and looked at her.

Tears still tracked down her face, but underneath them was that same stubborn, defiant energy that had been needling me since the moment I walked into the room. I didn’t know Ruby well—hell, I barely knew her at all—but I had never felt this particular brand of resistance from her. It sat wrong under my skin.

I kept my grip firm on her wrist and pulled her down the stairs and out into the night.

The Bentley was already waiting, doors open. Vincent stood by the rear one.

“Get in,” I told her.

Then I looked down.

Bare feet. She was shivering hard enough that her teeth almost chattered.

I glanced at the nearest guard. “Bring her shoes. Now.”

He disappeared inside. I kept my eyes on her while we waited. When the guard returned she shoved her feet into the shoes without looking at me, then hesitated at the open door.

Her voice was barely audible, throat clearly still raw.

“Are you really taking me to my mother… or the psychiatric hospital?”

I said nothing.

She climbed in.

Vincent and the driver took the front. I slid into the back beside her and shut the door. The locks engaged with a soft, final sound.

I watched her rub her wrist where my hand had been. The red mark of my fingers was already rising on her skin. I felt nothing about it. She had brought this on herself the second she decided to play these games.

The car pulled away from the house.

Heavy silence filled the space between us. She eventually gave an address in a quiet, shaking voice. After that she kept glancing at me from the corner of her eye, trying to read whether this was a test or a death sentence. I gave her nothing.

The neighborhood we entered was small and tired. Old buildings. Dim streetlights. When the driver began to slow, she leaned forward like she couldn’t stand another second inside the car. I could feel the tension pouring off her in waves. She looked terrified.

Still a performance, I told myself. Ruby and her father were clearly up to something. I slid my hand inside my jacket and rested my fingers against the grip of the gun I always carried, making sure it was ready.

The moment the car stopped she lunged for the door handle.

Locked.

She twisted toward me, eyes desperate. “Open it.”

I raised a brow. “Giving me orders now?”

“Please—” The word broke. “I don’t know if she’s already unconscious or worse.”

I looked at Vincent through the rearview mirror. “Check the area first.”

She made a frustrated, almost frantic sound. “There’s no need for that. It’s just my mother—she's sick—she's not a threat—"

“I don’t believe you,” I cut in. “This could be a trap. It’s protocol.”

Her mouth tightened. For a second the defiance flared again, sharp and reckless.

“If you didn’t live such a dirty lifestyle,” she snapped, “you wouldn’t have to constantly watch your back.”

I turned to face her fully, letting her see death in my eyes. Letting her understand exactly how close she was to the edge.

She caught herself immediately, her face going pale, her hands rising as if to ward off a blow.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"No." My voice was soft. Dangerous. "You did."

She swallowed and went silent.

Vincent knocked once on my window and gave a short nod. Clear.

The driver unlocked the doors.

She was out before I could say a word, sprinting toward the building. Vincent stepped in front of her, blocking her path, and she skidded to a stop, her body practically vibrating with desperation.

"Move," she gasped. "I need to go inside. I need to see my mother. Move—"

Vincent didn't move.

She spun around, looking at me with wild eyes. "Tell him to move!"

I stepped out of the car slowly, adjusting my jacket. "Not so fast."

The hatred in her eyes was almost beautiful.