The Spare Wife Abigail Novels & Stories

Adrian turned first and pushed the door wider. The room was dark. Empty. Except on the bed, someone had laid out Clara’s white wedding dress. Across the bodice, written in red lipstick, were five words. LET THE NEW WIFE WEAR IT.

--- The Shift in the Room The atmosphere changes slowly. Question by question. Answer by answer. Tension loosens. Confidence returns. --- Then— One reporter asks: “And your wife, Mr. Cortez?” The room stills slightly. --- My Pulse I feel every camera shift toward me. --- Xavier’s Response But Xavier doesn’t hesitate. “My wife,” he says calmly, “is not responsible for market speculation.” A pause. “She is exceptionally capable at her position.” --- Silence The room goes completely quiet.

The audacity of Eva to try to control me after the way she had humiliated me last night. “I am handling matters,” I stated firmly. It was true. I was handling matters by continuing my day. Eva’s face contorted into a frown, her patience growing thin. “Claire, appearances matter. You know this. A wife abandoning her home the morning after a scandal—” “She didn’t abandon anything,” Margot interrupted sharply. Eva’s gaze moved to Margot, with barely concealed irritation. “This is a family matter.” She spoke tartily. Margot flashed an amused smile, like she was speaking with an ignorant child. “Then perhaps your family should stop bringing its problems into my office.”

I froze where I stood, the edges of the paper digging into my palm. Alexander's voice followed quickly. "While we really wouldn't blame her, I've slept with her just three times since that hell of a marriage." “And who brought that curse into our family? The Hales never had such disgrace before. Other wives pop out children like it’s nothing. But our precious Abigail? Nothing! But then she had the guts to sleep around. Humiliating!” “Fine, I will consider the surrogate,” he said simply, almost like he was talking about the weather. “Let her come back and sign the papers, and then we can proceed with that.”

Who told you that Abigail was a cleaner? Mrs Gates laughed out loud and replied, "Young man, since when is the cleaner richer than the CEO of the company? She coveted Mr Johnson because of his wealth. I don't know where she got the confidence from. Abigail ran away from home when she was sixteen years old. Since she hadn't finished her high school education, which position can she occupy in the company besides being a cleaner?" Ben, the reporter, shook his head and asked, "Where is your husband?" Mrs Gates told him proudly that her husband went to the office to teach their daughter a lesson.

"Wife of the late billionaire Emmette Nash. I ran away with my lover after my husband died. He's a murderer, and I want nothing to do with him. I renounce every share, every property my husband left me, and I want them transferred to Abigail De Ronte, the rightful owner of Nash Corps." Her hollow tone and the rehearsed words sent a chill racing down my spine. Before I could blink, the phone was snatched away, the video gone. Abigail’s entourage tucked it out of sight as if erasing the evidence from existence. "You already have everything settled then. I should take my—" I turned again, only to find the men closing in, their bodies forming a wall. They crowded together, herding me backward un

I greeted them. I see recognition in their eyes. “Good afternoon Mrs. Ottave!” They greeted me. “I'm visiting my husband. Is he in his office?” I ask them. “We'll just call her secretary Ma'am.” They said. While they are calling my husband’s office I took quick glance at the building’s lobby. Like our building, they have the minimalist look, simple but elegant. “Ma'am Mara as per your husband's secretary, Sir Maru is in his office.” “Okay. Thanks. ...” I look at her nameplate “Abbie”

“Leave. Go plan your wedding with the women.” Not waiting to be told twice, Abigail rushes from the room. When the door closes behind her and she is alone, she feels the sting of tears burning behind her eyes. She does not want to marry a stranger that she can not stand. She had big dreams fr herself that she is having to watch die before her.

There, I took the microphone from the officiant and beamed at them. "Congratulations, Ms. Jefferson, Mr. Gorman. Since it's a double celebration, as the original spouse, let me offer you a little gift to liven things up." "Nathaniel, don't do anything rash," the pale-faced Abigail warned quietly. "Let's talk about this when we get home." "Home? Which home?" I sneered at her mockingly. "You don't even own any of your properties anymore." Abigail froze. "What do you mean?"

All he could do was sit on the throne, have feasts, and whore around—not a king, a nobody. Abigail. She was more than ten years younger than her husband and went out of her way to take care of herself. She had thick black hair, a rat-like face, even if a pretty one, a thin figure—but with all the necessary curves—and wore a magnificent blue dress the same color as her eyes. Inside, however, she was a venomous slut, like a parasitic ivy that attached itself to a person, draining them of their strength, and enveloping them in its deadly embrace—a sundew, a flytrap. Both stared at me with different expressions on their faces.