All Chapters of The Substitute Husband's Secret: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

I scrambled to grab the drawings. My hands shook so badly I dropped half of them.The elevator beeped. Doors opening.I looked up. Ready for everything to end.But it wasn't Damien coming back.A woman stepped out. Mid-thirties, sharp suit, dark hair pulled back in a perfect bun. She carried a tablet in one hand and two coffee cups in the other.She saw me on the couch. Froze.Her eyes went to the drawings scattered around me. Then to my face. Then back to the drawings."Mr. Laurent." Her voice was smooth. Professional. But I heard the edge underneath. "I... wasn't expecting you awake."I shoved the sketchbook behind a cushion. Tried to gather the loose papers. Make them disappear."I couldn't sleep," I said. My voice came out too high. I cleared my throat. Tried to sound like Marcus. "What are you doing here?""Mr. Cross asked me to check on you. Bring coffee. Make sure you had everything you needed."She set both cups on the coffee table. Sat in the chair across from me. Crossed her

The smell of coffee woke me.I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through the guest room windows. For a second, I forgot where I was.Then reality crashed back. Damien's penthouse. The marriage. The lie.I sat up. My neck hurt from sleeping at a weird angle. The easel Victoria had delivered yesterday stood in the corner. Mocking me. Reminding me of everything I'd given up.The smell of coffee got stronger. And something else. Eggs? Butter?Someone was cooking.I got out of bed. Pulled on a pair of borrowed sweatpants and a t-shirt. Both Damien's. Both too big.Walked to the kitchen.And stopped.Damien stood at the stove. Barefoot. Dress shirt half-unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was still wet from a shower. Drops of water caught the morning light.He was making omelets.A billionaire CEO. Cooking breakfast. In his own kitchen.It felt surreal. Like I'd walked into someone else's life.He looked up. Saw me standing there."Hope you're hungry..." He paused. Just fo

The clock on the kitchen wall said 1:47 AM.I'd stopped looking at it an hour ago. Then started again. Then stopped.*We'll continue this tonight. Don't go anywhere.*So I hadn't.I sat at the kitchen island with my sketchbook pressed against my chest. A bag waited by the front door. I'd packed it at nine. Unpacked it at ten. Packed it again at midnight.Where would I even go?Home? To a father who would smile while he took apart whatever was left of my life? Montreal? Marcus hadn't answered a single call since the wedding. A hotel? With what money?And even if I made it out the door, my mother would still be in that house.That was the part that kept my feet on the floor.I counted my breaths the way I'd been taught at sixteen. In for four. Hold. Out for six.Five things I could see. The coffee machine. The dark window. The city glittering beyond it like it had no idea. My own hands, still shaking.And the photograph.It was still on the table where Damien had left it, grinning like n

"Chin up."I lifted my chin."Not that much. You look like you're waiting for a firing squad."I lowered it half an inch.Victoria studied me from the other side of the town car. Tablet balanced on her knee. Dark hair pinned into its usual flawless bun. She'd been drilling me for eleven days. Now we had eleven minutes left before the car reached the Whitmore Foundation Dinner."Better," she said. "Marcus walked into rooms like they owed him money. You don't have to copy that. You just have to look like you don't care if anyone notices you.""I care very much.""I know. Nobody else needs to."Beside me, Damien said nothing. He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, looking out the window at the lights of Fifth Avenue. Black tuxedo. White shirt. No tie, just the collar open at the throat. He looked like the cover of a magazine about men who owned cities.I looked like a boy wearing his brother's life.The tux fit perfectly. Victoria had made sure of that. Dark midnight blue, tailored

Damien avoided me for two days.He was good at it. I had to admit that. A man who could run a billion-dollar company could certainly vanish from his own penthouse without ever technically leaving it.He left before I woke. Came home after I'd gone to bed. Once, I heard the elevator at midnight and stood behind my door, hand on the wood, listening to his footsteps cross the hall. They paused outside my room.Just for a second.Then they moved on.I washed my face every morning and felt nothing on my cheek. No charcoal. No warmth. But I kept touching the place anyway, high beneath my left eye, like a tongue returning to a missing tooth.*I shouldn't have.*That was what he'd said.I replayed it a hundred times. Looking for the meaning. He'd touched me like I was something fragile. Then he'd left like I was something dangerous.Which was it?I didn't know. And I was too much of a coward to ask.On the third afternoon, I sat in Damien's study with a binder in my lap.Victoria had stepped