The Fake Foolish Bride's Secret Comeback

Wallace pushed open the white wooden door of the VIP ward. The hinges let out a faint, pathetic squeak.

Bryant Carson stepped inside. His custom Italian leather shoes struck the hardwood floor, beating out a cold, oppressive rhythm.

The stench hit him instantly. It was a nauseating mix of clinical bleach and artificial, sugary strawberry.

Bryant's stomach lurched. He stopped breathing through his nose, his dark eyebrows pulling together into a sharp, deep V.

Sunlight sliced through the plastic blinds. It landed on a small, frail back covered in a hospital gown that was three sizes too big, sitting dead center on the sterile rug.

At the sound of his footsteps, the girl's fingers froze. She was holding a bright yellow plastic block.

Her shoulders violently jerked inward, a textbook reflex of a beaten animal.

Clara calculated the distance. She let her fingers go slack.

The yellow block slipped. It hit the floor with a sharp, plastic clatter.

Like a startled rabbit, she pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her thin arms around her legs and buried her face in her knees.

"Mr. Carson," Wallace stammered, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his receding hairline. "Her cognitive functions... the childhood trauma... she operates at the mental capacity of a three-year-old."

Bryant let out a sound that was barely a laugh. It was a harsh, scraping noise in the back of his throat.

His deep, obsidian eyes held nothing but absolute skepticism.

He closed the distance. His tall, broad frame cast a long, dark shadow that completely swallowed Clara's curled-up form.

"Clara," Wallace coaxed, his voice trembling. "Look who is here."

Clara lifted her head. Slowly.

Her messy, dark hair fell away from her face. She wore no makeup. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her features were devastatingly perfect.

Bryant's pupils contracted. The air trapped in his lungs. For half a second, his chest stopped moving.

Then, Clara shoved her thumb into her mouth.

She let her eyes go completely dead, staring at his knees with a vacant, drooling emptiness.

The spell shattered. Bryant's blood ran cold. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit him like a physical blow.

He stared down at her. His voice was a razor blade.

"Get up."

Clara flinched. Her eyes instantly welled with thick, heavy tears. They pooled and threatened to spill.

She didn't stand. She scrambled backward. Her spine hit the freezing plaster of the wall with a soft thud.

Bryant's patience snapped. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

He didn't care about the germs. He didn't care about the dirt on the rug. He bent down and clamped his large hand around her fragile wrist.

Her skin was ice. It was unnervingly smooth, but freezing to the touch.

The temperature shock made Bryant's fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second.

That half-second was all Clara needed.

She pulled her thumb from her mouth. Her lips stretched into a massive, innocent grin, flashing two deep dimples.

She lunged forward.

Her arms wrapped around Bryant's lean waist like a vice. She buried her face into his stomach.

Bryant's entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked.

Her small hands bunched up the fabric of his five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit jacket, crushing the wool in her fists.

Clara tilted her head back. She looked up at him with wide, dependent eyes.

"Husband!" she yelled.

Her voice was high-pitched, sticky-sweet, and cloying.

The room died.

Wallace's jaw unhinged. He stopped breathing.

Bryant's face turned the color of ash. The veins at his temples throbbed against his skin.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He reached down, grabbing her small wrists, trying to pry her fingers off his waist.

Clara felt his resistance. Her bottom lip trembled.

The tears that had been pooling finally fell. They dropped like heavy stones, soaking right through the expensive wool of his suit, hot and wet against his abdomen.

The heat of her tears seeped through his shirt. Bryant's hands froze mid-air.

The memory of his grandfather's voice echoed in his skull. Bring her back, Bryant. Or I swear to God, I will end everything.

Bryant closed his eyes. He dragged a jagged breath into his lungs, forcing the violent anger down into his gut.

He dropped his hands. He opened his eyes. They were dead.

He didn't speak. He just grabbed her by the upper arm.

He hauled her up, half-dragging, half-carrying her out the door like a piece of broken, unwanted luggage.