The Wife He Never Chose

I didn’t stop running until my lungs burned. Rain soaked every inch of me, blurring the streets, the lights, the world. I didn’t even know where I was anymore—somewhere between panic and disbelief.

Lucien had been shot. The sound wouldn’t leave my head. I wanted to turn back, but my legs wouldn’t listen. They just kept moving.

When I finally collapsed under an awning, my breath came out in ragged gasps. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying not to cry. The envelope was still clutched in my hand, soaked but intact. I didn’t even know why I was holding onto it anymore—only that he told me to.

Then headlights cut through the street. A black SUV slowed at the corner. My body froze. Not again.

Before I could move, someone grabbed my arm from behind. I spun, ready to scream, but a familiar voice rasped, “Quiet.”

I almost didn’t believe it. Lucien stood there, drenched, pale, one arm pressed to his side.

“You’re alive,” I whispered.

“Barely.”

He pushed me back into the shadows as the SUV rolled past. The moment it disappeared, he leaned against the wall, grimacing in pain.

“You’re bleeding!” I reached for him, but he shook his head.

“It’s not deep.”

“It’s blood! That’s deep enough!”

“Clara, we don’t have time.”

I glared at him, shaking. “You just got shot, and you’re talking like we’re late for dinner!”

“Because if we stay here, we’ll both be late—for life.”

I stared at him, rain dripping from my hair. “You’re insane.”

He gave me the faintest smirk. “You said that already.”

I wanted to hit him. Instead, I sighed, hooked his arm over my shoulder, and helped him walk. “Fine. But you owe me an explanation before I lose my mind.”

“Fair.”

We ducked into a side street, then through a back door of what looked like an abandoned café. The lights were dead, but there was a faint smell of coffee and dust. I set him down on a booth seat and looked around for anything to stop the bleeding.

I found a clean rag near the counter and came back to press it to his wound. He winced but didn’t push me away.

“Does this happen to you often?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Only on weekdays.”

“Right. So weekends are just for hiding bodies?”

He actually chuckled, then winced again. “You’re funny for someone being hunted.”

“Humor’s how I cope.”

His eyes softened, just for a second. It threw me off more than the gunfire had.

After a moment, he said quietly, “They’ll track you soon. You used your ID at the airport. They’ll connect you to me.”

“How? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You picked up the wrong life.”

I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound poetic when it’s actually terrifying.”

He pushed himself upright, ignoring my protests. “We have to move. If they think you’re with me, we use that.”

“Use that? How?”

He took a slow breath. “You’re going to pretend to be my wife.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. “They’re looking for a married couple—Mr. and Mrs. Vale. If we play that part, we can slip through security without questions.”

I laughed—loud, maybe hysterical. “You think people are just going to believe that? That we’re married?”

“They’ll believe what I tell them to.”

His confidence annoyed me. “Oh, of course. Because you have that ‘trust me, I get shot for a living’ charm.”

He smirked faintly. “You noticed.”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. It’s the only way to keep you alive.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but his tone stopped me. He wasn’t joking.

“Fine,” I said finally. “But I’m not changing my last name.”

He tilted his head. “You already have.”

“What?”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two passports. He handed one to me.

The name on it read Clara Vale.

My jaw dropped. “You had this ready?”

“I was planning for someone else.”

“Someone else?”

He didn’t answer.

I sat back, heart racing. “So this was all… planned?”

“No. Just the cover. Not you.”

“That’s comforting.”

He glanced at me, rain still dripping from his hair. “You can walk away if you want. But if you do, they’ll find you before sunrise.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”

“Welcome to my world, Mrs. Vale.”

I glared at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop looking like you mean it.”

My cheeks flushed. I hated that he noticed.

We stayed there in silence for a moment, the sound of the rain filling the room. His hand pressed to his side, blood seeping through the cloth. I hated the sight of it.

“Let me at least clean that properly,” I said softly.

He nodded once. I found a first-aid box behind the counter and knelt in front of him, hands shaking as I worked. His eyes never left me, steady and unreadable.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked quietly. “Why risk yourself for me?”

He looked down at me. “Because you’re in this now. And I don’t leave my mistakes behind.”

“Am I a mistake?”

He didn’t answer right away. “You weren’t supposed to be.”

That stung more than it should have.

When I finished bandaging him, I sat back, exhausted. “So… where do we go now, husband?”

He gave me a faint, tired smile. “We need a safehouse.”

“Let me guess—it’s not actually safe?”

“Safer than here.”

He stood slowly, wincing but steady. I grabbed the envelope and followed him out the back. The rain had slowed, leaving the streets slick and empty.

We walked in silence until we reached a quiet neighborhood of brick houses and flickering lamps. He led me to one at the corner, keys already in hand.

Inside, it was warm, surprisingly clean. A normal house. Not what I expected from a man who shot people for breakfast.

“This is your safehouse?” I asked.

“One of them.”

I looked around. “You live like this?”

“Rarely long enough to call it living.”

I turned toward him. “You talk like a man with too many ghosts.”

His gaze met mine, sharp and unreadable. “You talk like a woman who’s about to inherit them.”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang.

We froze.

Lucien’s hand went to his gun instantly. “No one knows this place.”

“Maybe it’s a neighbor,” I whispered.

“Neighbors don’t visit at midnight.”

He moved toward the door silently, weapon raised. My heart pounded. The bell rang again—longer this time.

Then a voice. Calm, familiar, but wrong in this silence.

“Lucien Vale. Open up.”

Lucien went still. His knuckles whitened around the gun.

I whispered, “Who is it?”

He looked at me, eyes dark. “Someone who’s supposed to be dead.”

The bell rang a third time.

Then a woman’s voice called softly, “Aren’t you going to let your wife in?”

My blood ran cold.

Lucien lowered his weapon just slightly, face unreadable. “Clara,” he murmured, “whatever happens next… don’t believe anything she says.”

“Who is she?”

He looked toward the door. “The real Mrs. Vale.”

And that was the last thing I heard before the lock clicked.