After My Husband Saved His Mistress, I Faked My Death

I sat frozen in front of the television, remote clutched so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The press conference flickered on the screen—a sea of microphones and cameras aimed at the podium where Jasper stood, his face impassive in that way I'd grown to hate.

"Detective Wright," called out a reporter from the back, "there's been speculation about your connection to the Spencer family. Specifically, your relationship with Raven Spencer. Can you comment?"

My heart stuttered. Despite everything—the anniversary dinner he'd abandoned, his betrayal at the crash site—some foolish part of me still hoped he would acknowledge our marriage publicly.

"The Spencer case is an ongoing investigation," Jasper began, his voice clipped and professional. "Regarding your question about Miss Spencer—"

He paused, and I leaned forward, holding my breath.

"Any suggestion of a personal relationship between us is erroneous. Miss Spencer has been assisting with our investigation as a potential witness. Our interactions have been strictly professional."

The room spun around me. I grabbed the armrest to steady myself.

"To clarify," he continued, "any appearance of a marriage between us was part of an undercover operation. There is no romantic relationship."

The words hit like physical blows. Each syllable a betrayal more cutting than the last.

"An undercover operation?" repeated the reporter, clearly surprised.

"Yes." Jasper's jaw tightened. "The details are classified, but I want to make it clear that Miss Spencer and I have no personal connection beyond her cooperation with our investigation."

I switched off the TV with a sharp click, but couldn't block out his voice echoing in my mind. No personal connection. An undercover operation. Our marriage—our year together—reduced to a lie.

---

The Spencer family yacht gleamed white against the Hudson's dark water. Inside, New York's elite mingled in black attire, murmuring condolences that didn't reach their eyes. This memorial wasn't about grief; it was about appearances.

I stood near the bar, nursing a champagne I hadn't touched, watching Emily work the room. She wore a modest black dress, playing the role of grieving friend perfectly. Jasper hovered nearby, his attention never leaving her.

"Raven," a voice behind me said. "You look lovely tonight."

I turned to find my stepmother Marie appraising my white dress with barely concealed disdain.

"Black would have been more appropriate," she whispered, before gliding away.

I took a deep breath and moved toward the deck, needing air. The cool night breeze carried the scent of water and expensive perfume. I closed my eyes, trying to center myself.

"Oh!"

I turned to find Emily stumbling toward me, a glass of red wine tilting precariously in her hand. Before I could step aside, she collided with me, sending the dark liquid cascading down the front of my white dress.

Gasps rippled through nearby guests. The red stain spread across my chest like blood.

"I'm so sorry!" Emily's eyes widened in mock horror. "I didn't see you there!"

The dress was ruined. White silk ruined by red wine at my grandfather's memorial. The symbolism wasn't lost on me.

"You did that on purpose," I hissed, low enough that only she could hear.

Emily's face crumpled instantly. "How can you say that? I'm so sorry!" Her voice rose, drawing attention. "I'm just so upset about Thomas..."

Jasper materialized beside her, his hand on her shoulder. "What happened?"

"She shoved me," Emily sobbed, pointing at herself. "I tripped and spilled my drink, and she accused me of doing it deliberately."

"That's not—" I started, but Jasper cut me off.

"Raven." His voice was cold, authoritative. "That's enough."

"Jasper, she's lying—"

"Enough." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're making a scene at your grandfather's memorial. Pull yourself together."

The crowd around us tittered uncomfortably. I felt their judgment like a physical weight.

---

I retreated to the far corner of the deck, tears threatening to spill. The city lights blurred across the water as I pressed my fingers against my eyes.

"Here."

I looked up to find a man in an impeccably tailored suit holding out a crisp handkerchief. Not Jasper—someone else entirely. Tall, with dark hair and eyes that assessed me with cool intelligence rather than pity.

"Erik Crawford," he introduced himself, offering his hand.

I knew the name. Real estate mogul. My father's chief competitor.

"Raven Spencer," I replied automatically, accepting the handkerchief.

"I know who you are." His gaze flicked to the wine stain on my dress. "And I know that wasn't an accident."

I stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"Your stepmother's been watching you all evening." He nodded subtly toward Marie, who was whispering to a group of socialites. "And that performance with Detective Wright and his... friend... was quite revealing."

"Are you offering fashion advice or something else?" I asked sharply.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "An alliance."

"An alliance," I repeated.

"Your father's been maneuvering to cut you out of the Spencer inheritance." Erik's voice was matter-of-fact. "I have... resources that could help you secure what's rightfully yours."

I studied him, trying to discern his motives. "Why would you help me?"

"Let's just say your father and I have our own history." He glanced toward the city skyline. "And I recognize strength when I see it, Miss Spencer."

For the first time that evening, I felt something other than humiliation. A tiny spark of possibility flickered in my chest as I looked at Erik Crawford and wondered what kind of alliance he had in mind.