บททั้งหมดของ The Replacement Wife : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Victor Laurent doesn't do anything without a reason, and as I watch him arrange the wine glasses with surgical precision, I wonder what his reason is tonight.I stare at my reflection and try to remember how to breathe.Felicity would have worn the red dress. The one with the low back and the kind of confidence that fills a room before she even walks in. I reach past it and pull out something simple. Navy blue. Fitted but not trying too hard. My dress. Not hers.Dominic has been somewhere else all afternoon. Not physically, but the part of him that sometimes almost reaches for me went quiet the moment his father stepped through the front door. He's been moving through the house like someone waiting for a verdict.I found him in the hallway outside my room."My father plays chess with people," he says, not looking at me. "He's always three moves ahead.""What does that mean for tonight?"He's quiet long enough that I know he's choosing what to leave out. "Just be careful what you tell

Security finds nothing. No trace of who sent the email, no digital footprint, nothing. Which somehow makes it worse.David Park runs security for Laurent Industries the way someone runs a small country. Quietly, completely, with the kind of focus that makes you feel like he's already three steps into a scenario you haven't imagined yet. Former FBI. The kind of stillness that comes from years of watching rooms instead of being in them.His office in the basement of the building is cold even with the heating on. He has the email printed out and laid flat on his desk, like he's studying a crime scene photo."Could be a prank," he says. "Could be serious.""Which do you think it is?" I ask.He looks at me. "I think people who send pranks don't bother covering their tracks this well."Dominic, standing by the door with his arms crossed, says, "I want someone with her. Always.""I don't need a bodyguard," I say.Both of them look at me with the exact same expression.We compromise. Discreet

The hospital smells like my worst memories. Antiseptic and fear and the particular stillness that comes before bad news.Victor is already in the waiting room when we get there. He's sitting in one of the plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and when he looks up at the sound of our footsteps, I barely recognize him. He looks ten years older than he did at dinner four days ago. His eyes are red at the edges."He was driving home from his studio," Victor says. "Someone forced him off the road. Witnesses saw a black SUV. It didn't stop."Dominic pulls out his phone and steps away. I can hear him asking for Moreno by name, his voice low and flat in the way that means he's holding something back by force. "This is connected. Has to be."I sat down next to Victor. The chair is hard plastic, cold through my jacket. My hands are in my lap and I can't make them stop being still. Sebastian is twenty-three. He makes sculptures out of salvaged metal and sends Dom

I wake up not knowing whose blood is on my hands. Literally on my hands. Until I remember: I fired the gun.The ceiling is white and the sheets are stiff and scratchy against my arms and for a confused second I think I'm back in the first hospital, waiting for news about Sebastian. Then I turn my head and Dominic is in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching me with the particular stillness of someone who has been watching for a long time.He's not hurt. I check him the way you check something you almost lost. No bandages, no pallor, no damage I can see. The knot in my chest loosens one degree."What happened?" My voice comes out rough.He leans forward. "When the jammer activated, Moreno's team read it as a hostage situation. Standard protocol is an immediate breach. They were already moving before the first shot.""I shot him." Saying it out loud makes it sit differently than it did inside my head."Thornton aimed at me. You fired first." His voice is even. "He's ali

Nothing kills a post-coital glow quite like your pregnant sister calling in crisis at 6 AM.I slip out from under Dominic's arm carefully, taking the phone into the hallway and pulling the bedroom door almost closed behind me. The corridor is cool and grey with early morning light. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, knees pulled up, the way I used to sit as a kid when I needed to think.Felicity is crying. Not the performative kind she used to deploy at family dinners when she wanted something. The real kind, the kind that has been going on for a while before the call."I'm eight weeks," she says. "I just found out properly. I've been in denial about it for three weeks before that.""The father?"A pause that tells me everything before she speaks. "My yoga instructor. His name is Marco. We'd been seeing each other for four months." Another pause. "He's married. He didn't tell me. His wife found out last week and she called me and said if I don't disappear she'll make su