His Contract Wife, His Greatest Mistake

Alexander had already put several meters between them when his pace faltered.

For the briefest second, Lillian thought he might turn around and come back to her.

He didn’t.

Instead, he angled his body halfway toward her, his expression detached, as if reconsidering something trivial. “You trained in emergency response, Lillian,” he said evenly. “It’s just a sprain. You can handle it yourself, can’t you?”

Just a sprain?

Moments earlier, he had declared it serious enough to carry her across the courtyard.

Perhaps severity depended on who was injured.

A faint, humorless smile tugged at her lips but never fully formed. In Alexander’s world, some people were priceless investments. Others were operational assets—replaceable.

A memory rose unbidden, tightening her throat.

Years ago, during a quiet summer evening at the De Luca estate, she had nicked her finger while slicing fruit in the kitchen. The cut hadn’t even bled properly—just a thin red line near her nail.

Alexander had reacted as if she’d been shot.

He had lifted her straight onto the sofa, chastised her for being careless, and insisted on disinfecting and bandaging the tiny wound himself. For the rest of the evening, he hovered at her side, refusing to let her so much as lift a glass of water.

Back then, she mistook that intensity for devotion.

She thought that kind of attention lasted.

Now, standing there with her ankle swelling and him debating whether she was worth a delay, she felt something inside her split cleanly in two.

Her eyes burned. She angled her face away before he could notice.

As she shifted slightly, her gaze landed on the edge of his coat.

One button was missing.

The sight pulled her into another memory.

A week earlier, the Finance Division had hosted a reception in a neighboring territory. She’d drunk more wine than she should have—rare for her. By the time the evening ended, the chauffeurs were gone, and the roads were nearly empty.

After waiting outside in the cold longer than she cared to admit, she finally called him.

“Alexander,” she had said, her words softened by alcohol and fatigue, “there’s no driver left. Could you pick me up?”

On the other end, she heard movement—footsteps, faint music.

And Scarlett’s laughter in the background.

“I’m out with Scarlett,” he replied briskly. “It’s late. I’m not sending her home alone. Wait a while. I’ll drop her off first. If you can’t, just find another car and expense it.”

He hadn’t paused to register that she had already told him there was no other car.

Scarlett’s safety had been non-negotiable.

Lillian’s had been flexible.

In the end, she walked.

Nearly twenty kilometers through dim back roads, heels blistering, dress catching on low branches, pride dissolving with every step.

When headlights finally appeared behind her, a sleek black Audi A8 slowed to a stop.

Alexander stepped out, irritation radiating from him.

“What are you doing?” he demanded sharply. “I drove past the location you sent three times. You weren’t there.”

“I waited, but there was no—” she began.

He didn’t let her finish. His fingers closed around her wrist, not gently, and he ushered her into the car with controlled force. The door slammed hard enough that something metallic clattered to the floor.

Later, when she found a small black button near the passenger seat, she realized it had torn off his coat during that outburst.

That night had been the last time she told herself comforting lies.

After that, she understood her position clearly.

Dragging herself back to the present, she lifted her chin and looked at him with measured calm.

“I work crisis response too,” she said quietly. “I’ll take care of it. You should go. No need to keep… your priority… waiting.”

Whatever hesitation lingered in his posture vanished at her composed tone.

He stepped closer and brushed a brief kiss against her forehead—efficient, almost perfunctory. “Rest,” he said. “I’ll check on you later.”

The gesture felt rehearsed.

Routine.

She nodded just as mechanically.

Without another glance in her direction, he turned and headed toward the main house, already focused elsewhere.

Only when he disappeared from sight did she straighten fully. Her fingers rose instinctively to wipe the moisture at the corners of her eyes before anyone passing through the courtyard could see.

She tried to calculate how many times he had walked away mid-sentence because Scarlett called.

She lost count.

And that soft, breathy tone Scarlett used earlier? Lillian had spent years managing crisis rooms and field injuries. She knew the sound of genuine illness.

There had been no weakness in Scarlett’s voice.

Yet Alexander responded every time as if summoned by instinct.

Carefully redistributing her weight, Lillian began limping toward the medical wing. Without adrenaline masking it, the pain in her ankle flared sharply.

A few soldiers leaning against the exterior wall noticed her approach and smirked knowingly.

“Careful, future Donna,” one called out playfully. “Save that energy for the wedding night.”

Another laughed. “Yeah, if the Don can’t make tomorrow’s inspection because he’s exhausted, we’ll know who to blame.”

Their teasing carried no malice—just assumption.

She offered a restrained smile, lifting her hands lightly. “Nothing scandalous,” she replied, raising her pant leg just enough to reveal the swelling. “I wasn’t paying attention. That’s all.”

They nodded, still grinning, clearly unconvinced.

Lowering the fabric again, she pushed open the door to her private office inside the infirmary.

It clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound.

In the silence, she exhaled slowly—deep and steady.

Soon, she told herself.

Very soon, none of this would belong to her anymore.