His Contract Wife, His Greatest Mistake

There was nothing but silence on the other end of the call.

For several drawn-out seconds, Lillian heard only the faint sound of Alexander’s breathing through the receiver.

When he finally responded, there was hesitation in his voice—subtle, but unmistakable. “Lillian… I apologize. Something urgent came up at the estate, so I left earlier than planned. Stay there. I’ll return to pick you up.”

As he spoke, background noise filtered through—cutlery clinking softly against porcelain, a chair shifting across the floor.

Then came Scarlett’s voice, light and cheerful, unmistakably close to him.

“Alexander! Dinner’s almost ready. Where are you going?”

Lillian shut her eyes for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against her temple as if to steady herself. A thin smile curved her lips, brittle and faint.

“It’s alright,” she said evenly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll arrange my own ride.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

“…Fine,” he agreed. “Take your time. I prepared something special tonight. It’ll still be warm when you get home.”

The line disconnected.

Lillian remained standing in the dim hallway, the silence afterward heavier than the words exchanged. Her chest felt strangely hollow, yet the ache within it deepened rather than dulled.

Her hand slipped into her coat pocket, brushing against the folded transfer contract she had hidden there.

How exactly was she going to convince him to approve her departure?

She leaned her shoulder briefly against the cool stone wall before forcing herself forward. Every step sent a sharp, punishing throb through her injured ankle. By the time she reached the main road beyond the clinic’s gates, sweat clung to her skin despite the evening chill.

After what felt like an eternity, she managed to flag down a passing taxi.

The moment she lowered herself into the back seat, exhaustion washed over her. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, her reflection in the window pale.

The driver studied her through the rearview mirror. “Miss, you don’t look well. Shouldn’t you call your boyfriend to come get you?”

Lillian let her head rest lightly against the glass, releasing a soft breath. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from her lips.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “Only a fiancé.”

“Then call him,” the driver urged kindly. “You look like you might pass out. No fiancé would want his woman struggling like that.”

She stared out at the passing streetlights, their glow streaking across the window.

“That would be ideal,” she replied calmly. “Unfortunately, he’s busy… entertaining someone else.”

The driver’s brows drew together. “That doesn’t sound very reliable.”

A faint chuckle escaped her.

“Reliable?” she echoed softly. “I’d call it selective attention.”

Every detail of their upcoming wedding—the guest list of allied families, the layout of the reception hall, the redesign of their shared suite—had been arranged solely by her.

When she once asked for his opinion, Alexander had responded flatly, “You’re better at this. Why consult me over minor details? Handle it.”

Yet once everything was finalized, he criticized nearly every choice.

It was Scarlett who later “adjusted” the décor—until Alexander finally approved.

The memory left her feeling drained beyond measure.

The taxi eventually pulled up to the gates of the De Luca estate.

From the entrance to the main doors was only a short walk—mere minutes under normal circumstances.

Tonight, it took her nearly thirty.

Each step burned.

When she finally reached the front door, she instinctively reached into her bag for her keys.

Her fingers met nothing.

She stilled.

Then she knocked.

Several seconds passed before the door opened.

Alexander stood there, irritation already etched into his features.

“Where are your keys?” he asked sharply. “Why are you knocking instead of letting yourself in?”

She stepped past him without answering at first, moving carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her ankle.

Only once she reached the living room did she set down her bag and retrieve her keyring.

“My spare key?” she said calmly. “You took it last week and gave it to Scarlett. Don’t you recall?”

His expression shifted as memory surfaced. The sharp edge of annoyance dulled, replaced by faint awkwardness.

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” he replied. “You could’ve made another copy. You manage these things.”

Lillian offered a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She had stopped expecting equal consideration a long time ago.

When it came to Scarlett, everything required urgency.

When it came to her, everything could wait.

Steadying herself lightly against the wall, she made her way toward the dining area.

Scarlett was already seated at the table.

The moment she spotted Lillian, she rose with exaggerated delight.

“Lillian, you’re finally back!” Scarlett exclaimed brightly, hurrying forward and slipping her arm through Lillian’s as though they were intimate friends. Her smile was wide and sweet, almost childlike, as she leaned in with theatrical warmth.