His Contract Wife, His Greatest Mistake

By the time Lillian finally lowered herself into the leather chair inside her private office and rolled up the fabric around her ankle, the damage was undeniable.

The skin had darkened into a deep, mottled violet. The swelling had spread far beyond the initial twist. Walking across the courtyard earlier—out of pride rather than necessity—had clearly made it worse.

Dr. Brooks, who had been reviewing medical files at the adjacent desk, glanced over and sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s not a mild strain,” he muttered. Then, without hesitation, he motioned to a nurse passing by. “Go inform Don Alexander. If the future Donna is limping around like this and we ignored it, we’ll be the ones paying for it later.”

Lillian’s head snapped up immediately. “No—please, don’t call him—”

But the nurse was already halfway down the corridor before she could finish.

Her shoulders dropped.

After a moment of hesitation, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. She typed quickly.

Someone saw my ankle and sent word to you. I tried to stop them. Please don’t turn it into an issue.

She stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar vibration.

Nothing.

Minutes stretched.

When the nurse returned, her earlier brisk confidence had disappeared. She kept her eyes politely lowered.

“Don Alexander said he knows,” she began cautiously. “But Lady Scarlett is in his office. They’re discussing something important. He didn’t say he would come.”

The air in the room seemed to thin.

Lillian lowered her gaze to the desk, focusing on the polished wood as if it demanded her full concentration.

“He must be busy,” she replied quietly. The words scraped against her throat.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

A voice message.

She opened it immediately.

Alexander’s voice filtered through the speaker—measured, composed, distant.

“I saw it.”

That was all.

No concern. No follow-up question. No instruction to stay seated or apply ice.

Just acknowledgment.

It felt louder than silence.

Before the weight of it could settle completely, the receptionist’s voice echoed from the front desk.

“Ms. Moretti? A client specifically requested you.”

The interruption felt like rescue.

“I’m on my way,” she called back, pushing herself up too quickly. Pain flared viciously through her ankle, forcing a quiet hiss between her teeth.

She needed movement.

Needed distraction.

The last time she had felt this suffocating urge to escape had been during her engagement banquet.

That night had been meant to publicly confirm her position at Alexander’s side. The city’s most influential figures had gathered. Cameras. Champagne. Expectations.

He arrived two hours late.

“An urgent matter came up,” he had explained coolly, as if she hadn’t spent the entire evening fielding curious glances and subtle questions alone.

For her, it had been a milestone.

For him, it had been optional.

Later, whispers reached her through discreet channels. He had been seen leaving the city that afternoon—with Scarlett.

She hadn’t asked for confirmation.

She didn’t need it.

Now, adjusting her white coat with steady hands, she forced herself down the hallway despite the pulsing pain.

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into routine. Patients came and went. She stitched minor cuts, adjusted prescriptions, offered reassurances. Her voice remained calm, professional.

She didn’t allow her thoughts to wander.

When dusk finally settled beyond the tall windows, painting the skyline in fading gold, she returned to her office and eased into her chair.

As she stood again to leave, sharp agony shot up her leg, nearly buckling her knees.

She looked down.

The swelling had worsened considerably—tight, inflamed, neglected.

She hadn’t treated it at all.

A weary exhale escaped her.

Earlier, Alexander had said he would pick her up.

So she waited.

The building gradually quieted. Day staff left. Night shift replaced them. Conversations faded to murmurs.

Still nothing.

No call.

No message.

No footsteps approaching her door.

The silence pressed heavier with each passing minute.

Finally, she braced herself against the desk and forced herself upright.

Fine.

She would go to his office instead.

She managed only a few uneven steps before her ankle throbbed so violently that cold sweat prickled along her spine.

She leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly.

This was foolish.

With trembling fingers, she retrieved her phone and called him.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes?” His voice was even. Neutral. Almost relaxed.

For a fleeting second, she wondered if he had genuinely forgotten.

If his promise had been that insignificant.

She swallowed, pride burning painfully in her chest.

“You said earlier you’d come get me after you finished,” she said softly. “I’m still at the clinic.”