The Wrong Woman Novel Novels & Stories

Some mistakes cost you the people who loved you most. And Irina Solace had been the wrong woman to lose. ⸻ Later that night, Irina sat alone in her apartment bathroom. The small white stick rested on the counter. Her heart pounded. Once. Twice. Again. She looked down. Then froze. Positive. The world tilted. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach. And for the first time that evening… She smiled. A tear slipped down her cheek. Followed by another. Not from fear. Not from sadness.

“White, elegant, classic; like the kind of woman your family prefers. Don’t tell me you didn’t see them?” Ethan exhaled sharply. “They arrived,” he said in a clipped tone. “But there’s a problem, Lawrence.” “Oh? Don’t tell me you’re already fighting?” Ethan’s voice went cold. “I didn’t marry the woman Grandfather arranged. There was a mix-up.” Silence. Then a low whistle. “You’re serious?” “Completely.” Lawrence burst into laughter. “You mean the man who reviews every document word by word signed a marriage certificate with the wrong woman?”

The pictures were everywhere, selling out like hotcakes. “Welcome to Williams’s world,” I muttered to myself. Williams and I in the courtyard after the UrbanAxis win, our bodies almost pressed together, his hand on my lower back, my face turned up toward his. The blogs hadn’t captured my face clearly, but the comments were ugly and heart-wrenching anyway. “Who is this mystery woman with Williams Banks?” “Looks like the boss has a new toy.”

She. Freddie's jaw tightened. "Send me the footage," he said. "Already did. Check your secure email." A pause. "There's one more thing. Small thing but I think it matters." "Go on." "The woman.. whoever she is.. she made one mistake. Second lunch. She shifted in her seat at one point and the camera caught her hand. Left hand. She was wearing a ring. Unusual one ...... looks custom. Some kind of dark stone. Oval shaped."

"We should." Neither of them spoke for a moment. The street moved around them — a woman walking past with a pushchair, a black cab slowing for the junction at the end of the road, the ordinary Sunday afternoon of a city that had no interest in either of their problems. "This morning was a mistake," Sophie said. Clearly. Cleanly. The way she'd rehearsed it in the café while Theo was talking, the sentence she'd built while walking here. "I was — I got caught up in the moment, and the conversation, and I shouldn't have—"

She gave a faint, sharp smile. "Don't you think that's a little pathetic?" Passengers had already gathered, whispering, phones out. "Isn't that Damian Joubert?" "Oh my God, what happened to him?" "Who's that woman? That's not Nora Carrington..." "Is this like a runaway bride thing? This is insane."

The city beyond the tall windows glittered, North Wilmore’s lights blinking like they had secrets I wasn’t allowed to know. I should’ve been finishing contracts. Should’ve been preparing for tomorrow’s board meeting. Instead, my mind had been caught two days back. The café. Nova Ashton. Her hand in mine. It was supposed to be a role, nothing more. A performance staged to slice Bruno’s pride and remind him actions had consequences. She was supposed to be a weapon. But then she’d looked at me. Not the sharp glares she usually aimed like arrows. Not the fake smile she wore for others. For one second, it had been real. And I’d noticed.

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw the room number listed there. She had texted me Room 612, but the confirmation email said Room 613. That meant I knocked on the wrong door last night—on the room next door. I felt like screaming after realizing the truth, but seeing the regret on Nicky’s face, I chose to close my eyes and calm myself down. She already felt incredibly guilty. Blaming her wouldn’t help—even though it really was her mistake that led me to knock and enter the wrong room. I should’ve known something was off the moment a ridiculously handsome man opened the door.

What was so wrong with that? That was a stupid question, of course. What was wrong with all of that was that she was a woman, and women weren’t supposed to bed hop without shame or guilt; women weren’t supposed to enjoy sex with lots of different partners. A steady boyfriend, sure. A husband, definitely. But a guy that a woman just picked up at a bar during her shift because she found him sexy? No way. And an MC member or seven just because she had a things for bad-boys and was surrounded by them every minute of every work day? Nuh-uh. No goddamn way.

The first wife was probably entirely impossible to live with. "And the terrifying part is, people will eagerly believe it," I murmured. Not because it possessed a single shred of clinical truth, but because a predictable scandal was always easier for high society to swallow than systemic financial fraud. Thelma's eyes filled with tears once more. "I am so, so sorry, Elena."