After My Husband Saved His Mistress, I Faked My Death

I smoothed down the front of my dress for the fifth time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of marriage to a man who still felt like a stranger in our bed.

The dining room glowed with candlelight, casting shadows across the intimate table I'd spent hours preparing. Jasper's favorite wine breathed in crystal glasses, and the beef Wellington sat perfectly golden on fine china—his favorite, not mine. Nothing about this marriage had been about what I wanted.

"Mrs. Spencer?" Our housekeeper appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. "The dinner will get cold."

"He'll be here," I said, more to convince myself than her. "He promised."

At eight-thirty, the front door finally opened. I straightened, forcing a smile as Jasper's heavy footsteps echoed through the foyer. He looked tired, his tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled. But it was the scent that hit me first—vanilla and jasmine, not his usual sandalwood cologne.

"You're late," I said softly, rising to meet him.

His eyes darted to the dining room setup, then back to me. "I told you I had work."

"It's our anniversary, Jasper." My voice cracked slightly. "I thought maybe tonight could be different."

He stepped back when I reached for him, his jaw tightening. "I'm not hungry."

"I made your favorite." I gestured to the table. "Just sit with me for a few minutes?"

Something flickered in his eyes—guilt? Regret? But it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.

"I can't do this, Raven." His voice was flat, professional. The same tone he used with suspects. "This isn't real."

"What isn't real?" I whispered.

"Us." He gestured between us. "You and me. This..." He waved at the dining room. "It's not real."

The candles flickered as if mocking me. "I thought we were trying."

"No." He shook his head. "We're pretending. And I'm tired of pretending."

I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "Is this about Emily again?"

His silence was answer enough.

"She called tonight," he finally admitted. "She had another nightmare about her father."

"And you went running." It wasn't a question.

"She needed someone."

"And I don't?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

Jasper's expression hardened. "This isn't about need. It's about reality. I'm a cop, Raven. A blue-collar detective from Brooklyn. You're..." He gestured at me, at the room. "You're a Spencer. This was never going to work."

"We could make it work," I insisted, hating how desperate I sounded.

"No." He stepped around me. "We couldn't."

I watched him walk away, his shoulders rigid beneath his suit jacket. The couch springs creaked as he settled in the living room, claiming his usual spot—as far from me as possible.

---

The phone rang at 3:17 AM. I fumbled for it in the darkness, my heart already racing.

"Miss Spencer?" An unfamiliar voice. "This is Mount Sinai Hospital. Your grandfather has been in a serious accident."

The world tilted sideways. "Is he...?"

"I'm sorry. He was pronounced dead at the scene."

I don't remember getting dressed or driving to the hospital. The fluorescent lights of the emergency room were too bright, too harsh. A nurse led me to a small waiting area where my grandfather's lawyer sat with a solemn expression.

"He was hit head-on," the lawyer explained quietly. "The other driver fled the scene."

I nodded numbly, unable to process the words.

"The police are investigating," he continued. "They'll want to speak with you."

Jasper. Of course Jasper would be there.

---

The crash site was chaos—flashing lights, yellow tape, and the acrid smell of gasoline. I pushed through the crowd of officers, searching for Jasper.

"Raven!" Someone caught my arm. It was Marcus Rivera, Jasper's partner. "You shouldn't be here."

"Where's Jasper?" I demanded.

Marcus hesitated, glancing toward a cluster of officers near a damaged sedan. "He's handling something."

I followed his gaze and froze. Jasper stood with his back to me, but I could see the woman he was speaking to—Emily Hill, her blonde hair disheveled, mascara streaking down her face. She was shaking violently, clutching at Jasper's arm.

"She's the driver," Marcus muttered, his voice tight.

My blood turned to ice. "What?"

"The other car. The one that hit your grandfather." He looked away. "Jasper found her wandering near the scene."

I started forward, but Marcus held me back. "Don't. He's handling it."

"Handling it?" I repeated incredulously. "She killed my grandfather!"

But as I watched, Jasper wasn't handcuffing her or reading her rights. Instead, he was wiping something from the steering wheel of the second car—her fingerprints. With deliberate movements, he pulled out his phone and began typing a report.

"What is he doing?" I whispered.

Marcus's silence was deafening.

Jasper finally noticed me standing there. For a moment, something flashed across his face—panic? Guilt? Then his expression hardened into the mask I knew too well.

"Raven," he said formally. "This is an active crime scene."

"My grandfather is dead," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the storm inside me.

"Yes." He glanced at Emily, who was now sitting in the back of a patrol car—unrestrained, uncharged. "We're investigating it as a hit-and-run by an unknown driver."

Unknown driver. The lie hung between us like poison.

Our eyes met across the chaos of flashing lights and police radios. In that moment, I saw something I'd never expected—Jasper Wright, the man who'd sworn to uphold the law, breaking it right in front of me.

For her.