After My Dead Wife's Revenge, I Found New Love

The hospital room felt like a prison cell, with its sterile walls closing in around me. Every beep of the monitors reminded me of the countdown to my planned murder. I had barely slept since overhearing Donovan and Arielle's conversation, afraid that closing my eyes would give them the opportunity they sought.

When a nurse announced I had a visitor, my heart thundered against my broken ribs. Had Donovan returned to finish what he'd started?

Instead, Nicholas Watkins appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the fluorescent hallway lights. His expensive suit seemed out of place among the medical equipment, like a shark swimming through a reef of broken coral.

"Mrs. Wheeler," he said, his voice measured and calm. "I came to offer my condolences for your loss."

His steel-gray eyes assessed me, taking in the bruises, the cast, the hollow grief etched into my face. I'd met Nicholas at various business functions, always watching from the periphery as he and Donovan engaged in their barely-civil corporate rivalry.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Watkins," I whispered, conscious of potential listening ears. "Could you... close the door?"

He raised an eyebrow but complied, settling into the visitor's chair with the confidence of a man accustomed to controlling every room he entered.

"I need help," I said, my voice barely audible. "And I believe you're the only one who can provide it."

"Intriguing." He leaned forward slightly. "What kind of help does a grieving widow require from her husband's business rival?"

I took a painful breath. "The kind that ensures she doesn't join her husband in death."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—interest, calculation, perhaps even a touch of respect.

"Donovan isn't dead," I continued. "The explosion was staged. He's planning to kill me for the insurance money. I overheard him discussing it with his mistress."

Nicholas's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's a serious accusation, Mrs. Wheeler."

"One I can prove, if I live long enough." I gripped the hospital sheet with trembling fingers. "I know things about Donovan's business operations—insider information that could give you the advantage you've been seeking. Help me disappear before he can finish what he started, and it's yours."

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. "You're proposing an alliance?"

"I'm proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement. You help me survive, I help you destroy the man who betrayed us both."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "And what exactly did Wheeler do to earn such loyalty from his wife?"

The bitterness rose in my throat like bile. "He orchestrated our baby's death and gave its organs to his mistress."

Something cold and hard flashed across Nicholas's face before he mastered it. He reached for my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle against my bruised skin.

"I accept your terms, Mrs. Wheeler," he said quietly. "My security team will be in touch. Trust no one but them."

He stood to leave, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. At the door, he paused, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"For what it's worth, I always thought you deserved better than Donovan Wheeler."

After he left, I closed my eyes, exhausted by the effort of conversation but buoyed by a fragile hope. I'd just made a deal with the devil I knew to escape the devil I'd loved.

---

Three days later, according to the hospital records, Reina Torres Wheeler died from unexpected complications. My heart stopped at 2:17 AM, resuscitation attempts failed, and my body was transferred to the morgue.

Except I wasn't in that body bag. Thanks to Nicholas's extensive network and considerable bribes, I was being transported unconscious but very much alive to a private airfield, where his medical team monitored my vitals during the transatlantic flight to London.

I awoke in a sun-filled room that looked nothing like a hospital, though the medical equipment surrounding me suggested otherwise. A woman with kind eyes and a British accent checked my pulse.

"Welcome back, Ms. Torres," she said softly. "I'm Dr. Sarah Mitchell. You're safe now."

"Did it work?" My voice was raspy from disuse.

"Perfectly," she assured me. "As far as the world is concerned, you died three days ago. Your husband has already collected your life insurance and is planning your funeral."

I closed my eyes, imagining Donovan's performance as the grieving widower while Arielle waited in the wings. They thought they'd won. They had no idea what was coming.

"Rest now," Dr. Mitchell said, adjusting my IV. "Mr. Watkins says you have plenty of time to plan your resurrection."

As I drifted back to sleep, I thought about Donovan taking control of the Wheeler family company, parading Arielle on his arm, believing himself untouchable in his perfect new life.

Enjoy it while it lasts, my love. The dead wife you discarded is coming back to haunt you.