His Contract Wife, His Greatest Mistake

Lillian understood all too well how deceptive tenderness could be.

Affection, when offered at the wrong moment, had the power to weaken even the strongest resolve. If she allowed herself to lean into this sudden gentleness—if she let herself believe it meant something lasting—then the decision she had fought so hard to make might begin to unravel.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying her thoughts before they drifted somewhere dangerous.

“Well,” she said lightly, injecting a playful note into her voice, “you’re the Don people have to book weeks in advance just to get five minutes of your time. And now you’re treating me personally—free of charge. I should feel privileged. Most people can’t even secure a formal appointment.”

Her smile curved faintly.

It did not reach her eyes.

Alexander’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

His brows tightened slightly, as though he sensed something beneath the humor.

Was she making fun of him?

The possibility irritated him more than he expected. He disliked the idea that she might be quietly mocking his authority—or worse, distancing herself from it.

Without addressing the thought, he resumed massaging the liniment into her ankle, his movements controlled, deliberate.

Only after finishing the first application did he finally speak.

“Scarlett’s apartment was broken into last night,” he said evenly. “I’ve decided she’ll stay here for a while. Just until things calm down.”

Lillian’s body went rigid.

So that was the explanation.

The missing spare key.

The guest room freshly prepared.

His earlier patience.

None of it had been impulsive.

He had already arranged everything.

And she was being informed after the fact.

A quiet frost spread across her chest.

For a fleeting second, she considered questioning him—asking why he hadn’t mentioned it beforehand, why she hadn’t been included in the discussion.

But what would that accomplish?

“It’s your estate,” she replied calmly. “You can make whatever arrangements you believe are necessary.”

Her compliance seemed to erase whatever justification he had prepared. The slight tension in his posture eased.

“You’re not upset?” he asked, his tone carrying a trace of caution.

She lifted her gaze to meet his.

“No.”

The word came easily.

Relief flickered briefly across his features. He stood and placed the bottle of liniment beside her.

“Apply another layer in about thirty minutes,” he instructed. “I’ll go downstairs. Scarlett’s alone.”

Of course she was.

“I’ll check on you later,” he added.

Lillian gave a small nod.

Inside, she marked another quiet tally.

He had received reassurance. That was enough for him to leave without guilt.

He reached the doorway and rested his hand on the handle.

Then he hesitated.

“Lillian,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, “Scarlett’s sensitive. Try not to act so distant around her next time. She might misunderstand.”

For a second, she simply blinked.

So that was the issue.

Her decision to excuse herself upstairs had been interpreted as coldness.

Should she have stayed at the table and smiled over half-empty plates?

Her fingers tightened subtly around the liniment bottle, the pressure whitening her knuckles.

Yet she forced her lips into a composed curve.

“I understand,” she replied softly. “Please apologize to her on my behalf.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

He gave a short nod and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

The moment the sound echoed through the room, the restraint she had been holding fractured.

Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.

This was the man she had loved for three years.

The Don she had chosen to stand beside.

And yet, never once had she truly been at the center of his world.

The throbbing in her ankle was insignificant compared to the ache blooming inside her chest. It felt as though something fragile beneath her ribs was being slowly crushed.

When it was time to reapply the liniment, she did so herself.

She did not expect him to return.

From downstairs, laughter drifted faintly upward—light, unguarded, intimate.

She lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, feeling colder than the night pressing against the windows.

After a while, thirst forced her to move.

She pushed herself upright and carefully made her way downstairs, gripping the railing for balance as she descended.

Each step sent a dull wave of discomfort through her leg.

Reaching the kitchen, she approached the water dispenser and instinctively reached for her usual glass.

It wasn’t there.

In its place sat a delicate porcelain mug she didn’t recognize—new, decorative.

She didn’t need to ask who it belonged to.